


Velvet Petals, Piercing Thorns

by GlassParade



Category: Glee
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 130,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/235058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlassParade/pseuds/GlassParade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England, 1484: The forces of Lancaster see Edward Blaine Anderson, Viscount Dalton, as key to their plans to retake and hold the throne of England. The House of York has come to the same conclusion and wants to stop that from happening. Their secret weapon is Kurt Hummel, stableman's son and reluctant spy. Historical romance AU. Warnings include sexual blackmail, torture, murder, discussion of war, and Evil!Jesse St. James.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With love to fellow author MotherGoddamn, who beta reads each chapter before it goes up and assures me this does not entirely stink. This fic is also found on my LiveJournal under the name a_glass_parade.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 15th century England, the winds of war are beginning to blow, bringing the disparate, separate lives of Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel into shocking conflict.

Edward Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel have never met. 

There's no reason why they should have, really. Edward - or Blaine, as he prefers and his friends indulge - is the orphaned heir to a very small, politically insignificant holding in England. He never knew his mother, Katherine, who died giving birth to him. His father, Neville Anderson, Viscount Dalton...well. Neville lived a bit longer, so Blaine remembers some things about him. But when the boy was only seven, Neville met a brutal end at swordpoint during the Battle of Barnet. His dowager aunt Alice Beaufort, Baroness Linwood - the only relative on either side of the family willing to take on the responsibility of raising a small boy and act as Regent to the Viscountcy until Blaine came of age - is his favorite person in the world.

Anderson men are known for their intelligence, determination and charisma. Baroness Beaufort had these innate qualities with which to work and added a healthy respect for women, treating lower classes with kindness, and a love of music to her nephew's upbringing. As a result, Blaine is now a young man of merely twenty years, yet he nonetheless manages his lands well. The small staff of people that help him run Dalton House are completely loyal to him – he has never beaten anyone, never forced his attentions on any chambermaid or kitchen girl, and he tries to give everyone time off when he can. His aunt thinks the sun rises and sets on his head, a sentiment he returns to her wholeheartedly.

Though he is not an overly tall man, Blaine is an extraordinarily handsome one. Wide hazel eyes sparkle warmly under an unruly crop of ebony curls. Since he enjoys horseback riding, he is well muscled and lightly tanned. He always dresses very well, thanks to his valet, but he often laughs and waves off shaving until his aunt refuses to allow him to kiss her on the cheek unless he does so and is no longer at risk of scraping her delicate skin. His laugh is infectious, his singing voice excellent, and he is surprisingly skilled with a lute. All of these attributes combine to make Viscount Dalton popular amongst other young men of his peerage, and he does not suffer of a lack of attention from the fairer sex. 

His title may be politically insignificant and his holdings small, but Blaine's quick smile and clever mind have ensured that he has captured the attention of the nobles loyal to the House of Lancaster. The Lancastrians are quietly marshaling their forces for an uprising and need a solid base of young, minor nobles committed to their cause. Their goal is to solidly overthrow Richard III, King of England and the leader of the York forces that routed Lancaster 13 years previously at Barnet. They think that Blaine would be ideal for their initiative, and they would be utterly correct: the young Viscount has every reason to loathe the House of York, possesses a good mind for strategy, and would not be averse to moving up in the ranks of English nobility. 

He is, in short, exactly what the House of Lancaster is looking for.

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

  
Kurt Hummel is the motherless son of an Austrian stablemaster. Burt Hummel married a pretty English girl not very many years after he first set foot on the soil of his new homeland, and shortly after that, their only son was born. A spirited but physically frail creature, sadly, Elizabeth Hummel would perish of consumption when young Kurt was only eight years old. 

It is fortunate for the Hummel men that Burt was a stablemaster and horse trainer of excellent reputation. It was a job that allowed him to keep Kurt with him and train the boy as his apprentice as he grew up. Was it what Kurt wanted to do? Not really. But he was reasonably good at it and he loved his father, so he did what he could. He found that he did his best work in tack repair, thus he was frequently found with waxed thread, needle, and battered leather in hand, his tiny, even stitches forming a perfect line no matter what he was sewing together.

Were it not for their unusual pale green eyes, no one would note Burt and Kurt as father and son at first glance. Burt is a stocky, slightly gruff man, the very epitome of what you might imagine a horseman to be. He is tanned from his years working outdoors, muscled from training horses, and has a bluntly honest way of speaking. His head is as bald as a boiled egg; his son is always nagging him to wear a cap to protect his scalp from the sun.

Kurt, at twenty, is tall, slender, light brown of hair and pale of skin. He is clever and taught himself to read from books both pilfered and honestly obtained. His voice is as sweet and clear as a flowing river and he sings as he stitches straps onto saddles and repairs bridles. His high cheekbones and pink lips have often gotten him called “ladyboy,” “little girl,” and “Princess,” but Burt taught his son to throw punches at an early age; Kurt may be lanky and wiry, but he is one hell of a scrapper. No one nickname or taunt sticks for long.

Of course, it means he doesn't have many friends, but he doesn't mind.

When Kurt was fifteen, Burt secured a position as Head Stableman and Horsemaster for the Earl of Huntingdon. Huntingdon is high in the ranks of York's nobility. He hired Burt away from a far less significant Baronetcy when the elder Hummel happened to be in a position to stop the Earl's prize palfrey from rampaging through the streets of London after a bee stung its flank. Burt fearlessly threw himself in front of the charging horse, seized the dangling bridle, and within ten minutes had the terrified animal calmed and standing patiently, waiting for his panicked master to catch up.

Huntingdon engaged Burt's services on the spot, and the Hummels have been essentially happy and securely employed ever since. The nobles of the House of York have never been anything but kind to them, and the pair see no reason why their loyalties should ever deviate one iota from the faction that has treated them well.

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

  
Blaine and Kurt are of different classes and warring political factions. One boy has many friends, the other has virtually none. One is a noble, one is a reluctant apprentice stableman. All they have in common are quick minds, an appreciation of music, and missing parents.

Under normal circumstances, they would never meet.

But it is coming to once again be a time of war. The House of York wishes to maintain their grip on the English throne, but they acknowledge that if a clever enough gambit is played, all could be lost. They are seeking any advantage they can find, and daily send more spies into the ranks of Lancaster.

The Lancastrians, of course, would like nothing more than to end decades of civil strife once and for all, preferably with their house emerging victorious. To that end, they are grooming the sons of nobles minor and major, for it is only with a firm foundation laid that a solid house can be built. The elders believe they can take the throne, but it will be up to the next generation to defend it. They think that one Edward Blaine Anderson could be the keystone to their initiative.

Huntingdon, on the other hand, has just received critical intelligence regarding young Viscount Dalton that he and other nobles loyal to York see to be the linchpin in their plot to bring down the House of Lancaster. There is one more missing puzzle piece to find before the forces of York can use this information, however, and they are getting the sinking feeling that time is running out.

The winds of war have begun to blow. While normally we are accustomed to seeing them do nothing but destroy, these winds will slowly, inexorably bring our two disparate young men together. Velvet petals of roses red and white will dance on the breezes of conflict – but all roses have their thorns, as the saying goes, and some will pierce more painfully than others...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine receives some distinctly unwelcome news from his Marshal and must begin to take a serious look at what his future may hold.

_The problem with helmets,_  Blaine mused, balancing the hilt of his sword in his hand,  _is that they make it so damn hard to see what your opponent is thinking._

The man standing across the sparring circle from him shifted on his feet, only the glittering of his eyes in the dim light revealing that he  _had_  eyes at all. Of course, to be fair, Blaine knew the man was seeing the same thing – an armored, anonymous,  _armed_  opponent. It was an intimidating thing to face; it was meant to be. All of it was simply part of the theater of battle.

 _Go._

He charged across the circle at his opponent, unleashing an involuntary howl of aggression. The unexpected noise seemed to startle the other man into action, and they met in the middle of the ring with a deafening clash of swords. Blaine let out a primal grunt as he used his shield to shove his helmeted foe back, used the momentum of the push to propel himself back out of sword's reach so that he could resettle his footing.

The other fighter wasn't about to give him that chance, however, pushing forward while Blaine was still off balance and forcing him to duck low and shove again with his shield. He was chillingly aware that it could occur to his opponent that Blaine was within distance of a blow to the head – a hit to the steel helmet wouldn't kill him, but it would disorient him long enough for a killing blow. But if he raised his shield to protect his head, he left his front and side open to attack.  _What is the better alternative?_  he asked himself, lightning quick.  _Protect the head._

Raising his shield, he let the rush of battle-lust take control and instinctively moved his body out of the reach of danger. With a wrench, he was away from the other man, but he'd relied too much on instinct, hadn't been aware  _enough_  of how he was moving. A fully armored fighter was not meant to move terribly quickly, or at least not as quickly as he had. He felt a painful stitch in his shield side now and had to stifle a gasp of pain.  _Be strong._  It wasn't as if it was a flesh wound. It was only a pulled muscle. He danced back and regarded the other fighter, looking for weaknesses.

 _He always leads with his right foot. Aim for the left side, then – get enough movement behind it and he might have to overcorrect, you could come in again when he's off balance. But quickly, quickly..._

Blaine bolted forward again, feinting to his own left and then pushing right as the other fighter took the bait. As he had expected, his blow to the left side of the man's chest sent him off balance – but what he hadn't expected was that the man would spin  _with_  the blow and bring the hilt of his sword up to catch Blaine in the back of the head. The impact sent him stumbling to his knees, turning clumsily to pull his own shield up to ward against the sword that was coming towards him.

But a pulled muscle was never “only a pulled muscle” on the field of battle, and this time he couldn't keep back the gasp of pain as the movement of his arm wrenched the overtaxed muscle. His arm dropped, helpless, leaving him wide open to the death blow.

“Damn it, Blaine.” Metal clattered on the packed dirt floor as the man dropped his sword and shrugged off his shield. A pull at his chin strap allowed him to tug his helmet off and tuck it under his arm. “I don't know how many times I've told you that you can't just let instinct take over. You're hurt.” The Marshal of Dalton House was glowering down at his Viscount, daring the younger man to refute him.

“It's just a muscle in my side, David. It'll be fine,” Blaine grumbled as he planted the tip of his sword into the ground and pushed himself to his feet. “I've had worse.”

“It's not the muscle, it's your bad habit that's the problem. You can't lose your head in the middle of a battle! It would be playing right in to the enemy's hands.” David snatched Blaine's sword and shield away, glaring until the noble had removed his own helmet, allowing his sweat-flattened black curls to tumble free.

“You say these things as if we were going into battle tomorrow,” Blaine protested, brushing the mop away from his face. “I have plenty of time to keep training. The rest of my life, even, since there's no war on and there's not likely to be one.”

“No amount of training is going to help you if you refuse to correct your poor reactions,” retorted the Marshal. “I say this as your military adviser, sir.”

The Viscount winced. “Oh, no, you're calling me sir. David, we grew up together.”

“And you entrusted me with the responsibility of  _being your military adviser._  With the responsibility of teaching you how to save yourself from having your blood and innards spilled out on the English countryside like some common, stupid herd animal in a slaughterhouse. If I have to call you sir and remind you of your  _rank_  in order to put sense into your head, then I will do it.” He paused and glared again, harder. “And if that doesn't work, the next time you pull a fool move like that in a sparring match, I will take the opening you give me and knock you senseless.”

“Fair enough.” Blaine didn't feel like arguing anymore. He wanted to strip his armor off and get into a hot bath to soothe his aching side. Slowly, he moved over to the armor rack and allowed his squire to begin the long process of extricating him from his steel prison. “I won't even have you pilloried and whipped for it.”

David shoved his helmet onto its stand and cast an exasperated look at the other man. “Blaine, what do I have to do to get you to take the threat of war seriously?”

“I don't know, prove to me that one is coming?” He raised his arms to give the squire access to begin removing his breastplate, trying not to wince as the motion pulled at his sore side. “You keep saying that I have to be prepared, but for what? The York dogs that killed my father have been on the throne since you and I were small children. There are no more direct Lancastrian heirs to make a claim for it. We've heard nothing out of France for as long as I can remember. So what, exactly, am I to ready myself for apart from your tender ministrations?”

“You are a fool, Edward Blaine Anderson.” The Marshal's voice mingled concern and annoyance at his friend and liege. He pulled off his gauntlets, throwing them into a chest by the rack. “Don't allow yourself to be complacent. War will come soon enough. And your attitude will get you killed. I don't want to see that happen.”

“Touching of you, David. It's fortunate that I have no intention of dying on the field of battle. I don't see myself running towards this non-existent war.” Blaine allowed his squire to divest him of the remainder of his armor and accepted the use of a towel to rub the sweat out of his hair.

The other man arched a skeptical eyebrow. “And what will you do when war comes to you?”

“Run  _away_ , of course.” A cocky grin lit up Blaine's face as he threw his towel at David's head and bolted for the door, his military adviser fairly quickly in hot pursuit.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

When they burst through the kitchen entrance of Dalton House, they were laughing like boys, arms slung over each other's shoulders in an only partly successful effort to help keep themselves upright. Blaine's aunt Alice, the lady of the House in the absence of a wife, was in the kitchen discussing changes to the evening meal with his ch â telaine. Both women jumped, startled, when the door flew open and hit the wall with a noisy bang.

Alice recovered first, brushing a curl of dark hair out of her twinkling blue eyes. “Edward,” she drawled, tone drier than parchment, “If you've quite finished trying to pull the house down...?”

His mother's sister was the one person in the world who could get away with calling Blaine by his proper name. Alice Beaufort had undertaken to raise the newly orphaned Viscount after his father Neville and her husband Roger had both lost their lives on the battlefield at Barnet. Having never had children of her own with Roger, who had been Baron Linwood, Alice did not fight the relatives who claimed his land and home in the absence of an heir. She had chosen instead to reclaim her maiden name, retain her courtesy title, and move into Dalton House to stay with her nephew in the one home he'd ever known.

Blaine's face split into another sunlight smile as he loped across the kitchen to deposit a loud, smacking kiss on his aunt's cheek. “Anything for you, favorite aunt.”

“I'm your only aunt, you cheeky rascal.” Alice smiled fondly at her nephew, confounding mixture of boy and man that he was. “Disgusting. You smell like a barnyard and you're dripping with sweat.”

“That's all right. I'll bathe before dinner. Emma will send a bath up to my room, right, Emma?” He turned to look at the tiny redheaded woman who acted as his housekeeper. A frown furrowed his heavy eyebrows as he realized that her brown eyes were wide with horror, and she was...squeaking? “Emma?”

“Miss Pillsbury?” Alice waved a hand in front of the woman's face. The châtelaine's eyes snapped up to look at her mistress, her hand gesturing weakly in the direction of Blaine's shoes.

“My...I swept...boots!” Emma's voice was emerging in a series of rising squeals. “My  _floors! Take those filthy boots off at once!_ ”

Blaine and David stared at the woman as if she'd grown two heads. Alice bit her lip to stifle a laugh, speaking only when she was certain she wouldn't completely lose control. "I suggest you do it, Edward." She waved him off towards the entrance. "I will not be stopping Miss Pillsbury if she tries to murder you for ignoring such a simple request."

"Well, when you put it that way, Aunt Alice..." Blaine grinned and returned to the door, balancing on each foot in turn to tug off the boots and depositing them on the low rack placed there for that purpose. The stone floor was chilly through his hose, but he could see his housekeeper's relief on her face, and she'd stopped wheezing. "Better, Emma?"

The châtelaine smiled tightly. "Immensely, sir. Thank you." 

"I'm sorry for tracking dust on your nice clean floors." He strode over and grabbed the housekeeper by the shoulders, kissing her cheek as noisily as he had done his aunt's and laughing as she squealed in horror and ran off. "I'm sorry again, Emma! May I please still have a bath sent up?"

"You've got to stop teasing her, Edward. It's not nice. She's very timid and she does a lovely job keeping your home running smoothly." Blaine clearly heard that it was Baroness Linwood speaking and not his beloved Aunt Alice. He was appropriately chastened. 

"You're right, Aunt. I do know better. I'll find a present for her later to truly make up for it."

"See that you do." Alice looped the trailing end of her long skirt up over her arm and began walking out of the kitchen, beckoning for her nephew to follow her. "I've tended to dinner, let us discuss our upcoming social engagements. Well. Engagement. There's just the one. Lord Crawford is holding a ball to celebrate Amelia's nineteenth birthday."

Blaine grinned at David, who was trailing along behind him. "See, David? War is hardly imminent if old Crawford is throwing a party."

"Crawford would hold a party in the middle of a raging battle if he thought it would get another one of that passel of harridans he calls daughters married off," the Marshal muttered. "Six  _legitimate_  daughters, where did he find the  _time_?"

“Where does he find the  _money_ , is what I want to know. I know women don't eat much, but surely dressing them is prohibitively expensive.” Blaine eyed his aunt's brocaded gown speculatively, wondering how much it had made his Steward's head hurt when he got the receipts for it. Alice glared at him as if she could read his thoughts.

David snorted. “He doesn't find the money, he finds them husbands. Amelia must be next. Watch out, Blaine, she's always had her eye on you.” He laughed at his friend's groan of despair.

The Baroness pointedly ignored the both of them, sweeping to begin ascending the stairs towards the manor's bedchambers. “I've got a lovely embroidered sewing basket that I can give her as a present. The ball is in a fortnight, I'm sure that's plenty of time for you to have Wesley pick out a suitable gift for you to bring.”

“Why would I have Wes pick out a birthday gift for Amelia? I'm perfectly capable, I don't need to delegate that to my Steward.” Blaine puffed up, offended. “I select your birthday gifts myself.”

“Yes, and they're lovely, and I'm not the marriage-age daughter of your nearest and most powerful neighbor.” The Baroness patted her nephew's cheek. “You can't just send her jewelry and call it done, darling. Lord Crawford will see it as an invitation to open negotiations, and I am  _not_  going to be the one who has to tell him that my oblivious nephew doesn't actually have any interest in marrying the most featherbrained of his flighty daughters.”

“I  _like_  Amelia...” Blaine trailed off, unsure what else to say. He  _did_  like Amelia, she was a sweet girl and the best dancer he knew. But it was also true that he  _didn't_  want to marry her. Yes. His aunt had the right idea. “I'll talk to Wes after dinner, then. Do you think Emma will still have a bath sent up for me?”

“Not in the slightest, my dear. She's probably still scrubbing your kiss off of her cheek. I'll have one of the chambermaids do it. Oh, that reminds me, when you talk to Wesley, tell him we've lost another one and he'll need to find a replacement? The poor girl just couldn't keep up to Miss Pillsbury's standards.”

“Few can,” the Viscount sighed. “We go through so many...it's a good thing I rather like having a spotlessly clean home, or I'd replace Emma instead.”

“Perish the thought. No one could ever get our linens so white.” Alice twitched her mouth into a  _moue_. “It would never be worth it.”

“Not at all.” The trio arrived at the top of the winding staircase. “I shall see you at dinner, Aunt. Thank you for seeing to the bath.” Blaine kissed his aunt's cheek again and started off for his rooms, David bowing to the Baroness and following behind him. “David? Is there something you want?”

“Yes,  _Edward_.” The Marshal's tone was mocking, and he had to duck away from his friend's arm as it swung out to hit him. “While you're waiting for your bath, I thought I'd talk sense into you.”

Blaine frowned. “Not this imaginary war again. David, you've got to clean up for dinner as well.”

“I don't take nearly as long as you do,” David waved dismissively. “I don't have to impress the Baroness.”

They stopped outside of Blaine's door, the Viscount opening it and ushering his Marshal into the awaiting chambers with a sweeping, ironic gesture. “Fair enough. Besides, no amount of grooming could ever really make you  _impressive._ Tolerable, maybe.”

“I'll take that out on you next time we're in the sparring circle,” David warned as he settled into one of the chairs by the shuttered window. “But it's neither here nor there. Blaine, I meant it when I said you needed to be ready for war.”

The younger man yanked off his sweaty linen shirt and tossed it into the woven basket his housekeeper insisted he use for dirty laundry. He pulled a robe out of his wardrobe and began unlacing his breeches. “And I meant it when I said I don't believe that there's one coming.”

“Quite apart from the fact that one should always assume that war is coming,” the military man retorted, “I have more than instinct to go on. It  _is_  coming, Blaine.”

Blaine turned to face his friend, hands pausing in their work. The look on David's face was deadly serious, sending a chill down his spine. For the first time, he began to wonder. “How?”

“Drinking with Crawford's men-at-arms. They've seen some visitors of note lately.”

“Names?” Blaine returned to disrobing, trying to conceal his rising anxiety behind short, single syllable answers. James Freville, Earl of Crawford had been a prominent Lancastrian loyalist. Visits from other supporters were likely to be nothing more than social calls, surely.

He pushed away the fact that he knew full well that Richard III was growing increasingly unpopular with the people, and that they still didn't know what had happened to his adolescent nephews, the “legitimate” York heirs to the throne before they mysteriously vanished from the Tower of London and Richard had himself crowned.

His denial of war had been born more out of hope than fact, he knew.

“Envoys from de Vere and Stanley.” David's response dashed any lingering hopes that Blaine had been harboring. John de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, was one of the most powerful remaining Lancastrians. And Thomas, Baron Stanley was married to Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Richmond, distant cousin to Alice and unarguably the most influential woman in England's nobility. While Stanley's title was technically lower than Blaine's, he still wielded a great deal of power thanks to his marriage. Envoys from their households would absolutely mean something, especially given how much trouble any envoy of de Vere's would have coming over from France unnoticed.

He slipped into his robe and took unnecessarily long in tying it shut, giving himself time to think. “Aunt Alice hasn't said anything.”

“She likely wouldn't have heard anything. Not yet. I don't know anything more than that the envoys have come, myself...but Blaine. You know what it means, that Stanley has sent someone.”

“You think he'll come here.”

“I'd certainly count on it. They'll need all the Lancastrian nobles they can gather, and you're his cousin by marriage.”

“Distantly.” Blaine dismissed the connection. “Only because of Mother and Alice.”

“You're still a relative, and one with even a vague claim to the throne yourself. They will come, Blaine.”

He dropped into the other chair across from David, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave off the headache he felt coming on. “I don't know what to think of this.”

“You would if you'd been  _listening_  to me all of this time.” The Marshal didn't even attempt to hold back the fire of his anger. “You appointed me Marshal for a reason that I hope goes beyond our childhood friendship and my father's own position in your father's household. I have tried to fulfill my appointment, but it doesn't do much good if my liege fails to listen to the advice I give!”

“I didn't want to listen!” Blaine was angry himself. “As much as I loathe the Yorkist bastards, I had hoped to never see war. No one wins, David. No matter who is on the throne, no one wins. It killed my father...” The words choked off and caught in his throat. He had only vague memories of his father, of a strong man who carried him through Dalton House on his shoulders, making him shriek with laughter. A man who carved him simple toy swords and horses from the wood of the chestnut trees that surrounded the manor, who taught him to ride a horse, who hugged him tightly one night when he was seven years old and then disappeared, never to ride a horse or carve a toy or give a hug ever again.

David sat silently, letting his friend fight his way through his thoughts and sorrow. It was a long while before he spoke, and then it was with caution and concern. “I understand, Blaine. I know that were it up to you...well. But it's not. We must face it. I'm sure it will be only a matter of time before Crawford approaches you. I wouldn't at all be surprised if he convened a meeting at some point during the ball.”

“So soon?” He was startled. “That's only a fortnight.”

“I'm sure this has been going on long before now.” The other man rose to his feet as a knock at the chamber door signaled the arrival of Blaine's bath. “I don't like having to be the bearer of bad tidings, Blaine. Truly I don't. But I hope I've gotten you to start taking this – taking me – more seriously.” He strode across the room and opened the door to allow the servants to enter with the deep tub and buckets of water. “I want to live through whatever is coming and know that you will live through it as well, my friend.”

Blaine sat still in his chair as David gave him one last long, measuring look and disappeared out the door. The servants, seeming to sense his disturbed mood, went about their business and poured his bath in silence, only whispering to each other enough to get the basin prepared and filled with the warmed water. When the last of them bowed and departed, the Viscount stood and dropped his robe to the floor, pacing slowly to the tub and easing into it with a hiss as his strained muscles protested at the heat. Perhaps the warmth and the lavender he could smell in the water would calm his troubled mind before he had to put on a good face for dinner.

For a long time Blaine simply lay back, arms extended along the sides of the tub as he thought about what David had told him. He knew it had always been a fool's game to pretend that war would not come back to England. Simply hearing the Earl of Crawford's vicious invective against the Yorkist king at various parties would have told anyone who wanted to listen that another rebellion was going to happen at some point. Of course, that was the key: anyone who  _wanted_  to listen.

The touch of his fingers to his wrenched side elicited another hiss and a reminder of why he had not wanted to listen. Blaine knew he had a natural capacity for strategy – he'd been playing chess since he was young, enjoyed reading military histories, and sloppy performance in the sparring ring aside, he was able to quickly assess his chances and maneuvers in a fight. He was also popular amongst his friends and frequently found himself to be the leader of any group he happened to be in.

That did not mean he wanted to be in a fight, or to be responsible for sending anyone else out to get hurt or killed, a sentiment he knew he shared with Thomas Stanley. And he was under no illusions that he wouldn't be in charge somewhere, somehow. Even if he hadn't been a quick and clever man, Blaine was a Beaufort by blood and a noble in his own right. There was no way he'd escape heading up even a minor command. He could have been a stammering moron and they'd still put him in charge of something.

If they won, he might even be given a higher title. There would be plenty of those to go around once the Yorkists were deposed.

“Stop it,” he muttered to himself, halting that line of thought in its tracks. He'd always wanted to be just a bit higher in the nobility – Dalton House was largely self sufficient thanks to Wes' clever Stewardship and Emma's skill with handling the harvests of grain and fruit from their land. He actually had a self-generated income that was larger than the pittance he was still somehow granted from the crown. So it wasn't about the money, really. He just would have liked a better title and a bit more respect from elder nobles, who still had to visibly restrain themselves from patting the young Viscount on the head when they encountered him at formal occasions.

Blaine leaned carefully out of the tub to pick up the cloth and soap he'd been left for his ablutions and washed himself clean with care, even dunking his head into the water and soaping up his curls to get the sweat out. Lifting his chin, he took a deep breath before plunging underwater again and remaining there for as long as he could, thoughts roiling with dark clouds and portents.

Yes, more respect and a better title could come his way, if he lived through whatever was coming. But there was no guarantee that he would live, and if he did it would be at the expense of other human lives. He could not live in willful oblivion any more, no. War was coming. Blood would be spilled. People would die – he might die.

With a gasp, he surfaced as his breath ran out, curls streaming water down his face and back. He groped for a towel and wiped the moisture from his eyes so that he could open them again and begin the process of getting out and drying off. The servants had left a stack of towels for him, so he dropped the one he'd just used onto the floor to stand on so as to not drip water everywhere – another one of Emma's insistent rules – and emerged from the bath, shivering at the contrast between the warm water and the cold air.

He felt better physically – the soreness of his wrenched side had decreased significantly – but mentally, the solitude of the bath had done nothing for him. In fact, he thought as he toweled himself off, his thoughts were possibly more turbulent than they had been. He was going to have to work to not worry Alice at dinner. Not that she wouldn't find out eventually, Blaine knew. She still kept in touch with her cousin Margaret, and that redoubtable woman – not that all Beauforts weren't redoubtable, but Margaret was particularly frightening – was unquestionably involved in any rebellion being planned. If Blaine was to end up involved, Alice could possibly even find out about it before he did, though with Crawford as his neighbor he felt that mostly unlikely.

Mostly.

His valet appeared just as he was about to carelessly throw on whatever he pulled out of his wardrobe first. “Absolutely not, my Lord,” Thad scolded, snatching the sleeveless red doublet and green hose out of his hands. “How many times must I ask you to please entrust me with dressing you?” Despite the use of the words  _ask_ and _please_ , Blaine knew better. If Thad could get away with issuing an edict on the subject, he would have – he felt that passionate about it.

“And how many times must I tell you that I don't  _care_?” Blaine countered, trying to tug at least the red doublet back. “I am twenty years old! I am perfectly capable of dressing myself!”

“Certainly you are,” Thad agreed. “It's colors that you have a problem choosing.”

Anywhere else, with any other noble, Thad would have been out on his ear ages ago for being impertinent. But Blaine knew the man's knowledge of clothing was invaluable and kept him from looking like a complete idiot at parties. He only wished that Thad would confine his knowledge and criticisms to those times. But no, his valet insisted that he look his best at all times, and therefore Blaine was frequently treated like a small child. At least it was only in this regard.

He gave up and released the doublet into Thad's hands, ignoring the other man's satisfied smirk. “Fine. Get me something to wear. Can you at least take into account the fact that I do wish to wear red this evening?”

“Certainly, my Lord.” Stuffing the green hose back into their space in the wardrobe, the valet replaced them with black ones and added a matching black shirt to his armload of fabric. He retrieved a belt as well and returned to Blaine's side, ignoring the young noble's long-suffering sigh as he allowed himself to be handled like a rag doll.

In relatively short order, the Viscount was dressed for dinner in his red doublet and black coat, dismissing his valet after one last towel rub and despairing cluck over the unruliness of his curly hair. Blaine did have to admit that Thad had an unmatched skill for making him look presentable. The Baroness would find nothing at fault in his ensemble.

The thought of Alice sobered him all over again. Never one to miss a trick, he knew she'd heard him and David joking about war as she told them of Amelia's birthday ball. She had ignored them then, but Alice was as averse to war as he was himself, and he knew she would ask what he and David had meant. Earlier, he would have been able to dismiss it as what it had been, a joke, but now with his new knowledge, did he dare burden his beloved aunt with the ugly news of impending war?

He would have to. She would see through any pretense and prevarication he made. Besides that, if she hadn't heard from Margaret, he was sure she would any day now. David was right – if Crawford was getting involved, then enlisting Blaine as the nearest noble, Lancastrian, and a Beaufort relative...well, that would be not very far behind. Alice would find out, it was just a matter of who got to her first. He would rather have that be himself, to deliver the blow as gently as he could.

Blaine wished the York dynasty and all of their benighted heirs to the deepest pits of hell as he put on a smile and departed his room to fetch his aunt for dinner and break her heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt realizes a surprising truth about himself - and unfortunately for him, he's not the only one to see it.

"Young Mr. Hummel!”

Kurt looked up, tossing his head of light brown hair back out of his eyes at the sound of his name being shouted across the stableyard of Raglan Castle. It was a clear September day, one he was spending inspecting bridles for weak spots under the bright light of the Welsh sun. Though not an overly warm day, being in the direct sun was causing sweat to run from his head down his face. He scratched at his hair where perspiration had dried and began to itch, green eyes narrowed as he squinted to see who was calling for him.

Normally, he wouldn't have been the one summoned – his father Burt was the Stablemaster at Raglan and was the man all persons there turned to in matters of horse. Unfortunately, the elder Hummel had woken with both fever and a chill that morning, and so Kurt had ordered him to stay abed while he himself performed Stablemaster duties. It was not his favorite task in the world; he preferred to stay in the stable with his repair work and a book. But his father's health was of paramount importance to him and so he put up with it.

“My Lord?” The tall, fair-skinned young man nodded politely at William Herbert, the Earl of Huntingdon, for it was indeed his master who was calling for him. The Earl was striding across the yard with two other men at his side, heading directly for the stables. Clearly, he was seeking to go on a ride.

“Young Mr. Hummel!” Herbert repeated, a pleased smile on his face. “My goodness, lad, what are you doing out here? Where's that father of yours?”

“Ill, sir,” Kurt replied, his smile fading in worry. “I told him I'd see to the stables until he got well.” He staggered slightly under the hearty clap on the shoulder this admission got him from the Earl.

“What a good lad!” Huntingdon's tone towards the young horseman was warm. “Your father is quite lucky. But look at you!” He began to laugh as he looked Kurt over, taking in the man who had replaced the boy he was sure he'd left at Raglan only six months ago. “It can't have been so long that I've seen you – you're like a weed! How much taller do you intend to grow, young man?”

“Not too much, I hope,” returned the young man, his cheeks pinking under the attention. “I've had to start ducking as I enter the kitchen. I fear one day I shall forget and cause myself harm.”

The Earl laughed uproariously and ruffled his hair. “Well, don't do it today! I can't do without both of my expert horsemen!”

“I'll do my best.” The stableman smiled at his liege. “Would I be able to help you with anything at the moment, My Lord?”

Huntingdon nodded cheerfully. “Yes, indeed. Hudson, St. James and I would like to go for a ride on this lovely afternoon. Saddle up our mounts, would you?”

“Absolutely, sir. Right away.” Kurt bowed his head cordially to each of the men before him. Jesse St. James he knew, of course – they'd known each other since the Hummels had arrived at Raglan five years previously, Jesse being the arrogant, unfriendly son of the previous Steward at the time. They'd been enemies ever since Kurt had caught him trying to stick burrs under the saddle of a visiting Countess' horse and had informed both their fathers of the malicious, potentially very harmful prank. St. James had retaliated by shoving Kurt into a manure pile and the mutual loathing had only grown from there.

Now his childhood tormentor was newly the Earl's Steward after his father's death, a trusted right hand man. Jesse returned Kurt's greeting nod with a sneer and a barely perceptible roll of his cold, unsmiling blue eyes. The stableman fought to restrain his own dirty look.

The other man was unfamiliar to Kurt, at least by sight. He recognized the name, however – Hudson, as in John Finnegan, the Earl thereof. His appearance was...surprising, to Kurt, who found himself suddenly seized with peculiar and unfamiliar emotions when he caught a glimpse of the young nobleman.

William Herbert was a reasonably tall and powerfully built man, and St. James was no lightweight midget – but Hudson dwarfed them both by a significant amount. Yet for such an imposing presence, his face and demeanor were that of an affable, open fellow with a friendly smile and not a bad word to say about anyone, unlike Herbert, whose countenance was kind but firm, or St. James with his ever-present contempt for the world displayed in his permanently upturned nose. Hudson's brown hair stuck out in all directions in contrast to the Steward's perfectly tidied chestnut waves and Herbert's no-nonsense queue of salt and pepper. The effect made the young Earl look more like a farmboy than a nobleman. And his eyes – warm brown and glowing with good cheer – they took Kurt's breath away.

The young horseman did not know what to make of it all. He was suddenly conscious that he was sweaty, his hair hopelessly tangled, that he was wearing a plain shirt and breeches with heavy, ungainly boots. More than likely he smelled appallingly of horse. Kurt's cheeks pinked more dramatically at the thought of all of this, and he wondered why it suddenly even mattered. What was happening to him?

Thoroughly confused, he turned and hurried into the stable, summoning two stableboys to assist him with saddling and bridling the requested horses. There would be time to examine his odd feelings after he'd done his job.

Kurt took the task of saddling Herbert's horse himself, not trusting anyone else besides his father to tend to the Earl's mount. Keeping a weather eye on the other two boys, he made sure they had everything done properly and in a reasonably swift amount of time. After a quick doublecheck – as much as he would have liked to send St. James off with a loosened saddle girth that would fail during a good gallop and hopefully cause the arrogant man to break his neck, he knew better – he led the horses out, finding himself dazzled again by the Earl of Hudson's friendly smile of thanks.

“My Lords,” Kurt bowed slightly before handing the reins of the mounts to their respective riders. “Enjoy your ride.”

“Thank you, lad!” The men mounted up and trotted off into the afternoon. He waited until they were out of sight before snatching up the pile of bridles he'd been inspecting and darting into the cool shade of the stable, trying to calm down and understand what had just happened.

 _What had that been?_  At twenty years old, Kurt knew that it was peculiar that he'd never been particularly interested in women, but he'd just assumed that he preferred being a bachelor. Which was perfectly all right for him, he thought, since it allowed him to take care of his father and work alongside him. He only had one parent, he was never going to take that for granted. So he had been fine with being uninterested in the pretty girls that came around the stable for the other stablemen.

But this! This he had never anticipated and did not understand. Kurt fretted as he hung up the bridles that he had decided didn't need repair work at the moment. He hadn't ever considered that the reason he might be indifferent to women was because he would be attracted to men. He'd never known such a thing was possible. Certainly none of the other stablemen or boys ever mentioned such a thing.

Did that mean it was uncommon – or simply untolerated? His hand clenched around the buckle of the bridle he held, the sharp metal edges biting into his palm. He didn't know what to do. Was there anyone to whom he could speak?  _No. No one,_  whispered the voice in his mind. Not even his father.

Kurt's mind whirled in turmoil even as his hands went through performing his duties. He picked up the remaining bridles that all needed to have new straps attached in places and took them to the bench near the door, so that he could see the riders when they came back. A small wooden box there held the waxed linen thread and sturdy leather needles that he used for such repairs; he opened it and removed a length of thread and one of the needles before he sat down and used a tiny knife to pick away the stitches holding a worn-out strap to one of the steel rings on the bridle.

 _Why had this never come up before?_  he wondered as he worked, tiny and even stitches gleaming pale cream against the rich brown leather. He'd encountered dozens, scores of men in his life – unsurprising in his line of work - and none of them had made him feel the way that the Earl of Hudson had. His stomach had turned slow somersaults when the young nobleman had smiled at him. It had felt like the sensations all of the stableboys talked about when they saw pretty girls. The slow burn, the feeling of suddenly being untethered from the ground, the tingling in the palms of his hands.

No one had ever inspired such desire and conflict within him before.

The minutes ticked by into an hour, then two. Kurt moved on from bridles to stirrups, from stirrups to saddle girths, but while the work changed, his worried confusion was constant, not letting up for a single second. Absorbed in his task and consumed by his disturbed, disturbing thoughts – he slipped. A sharp leather needle pierced the pad of his finger painfully. “Ouch! Damn it all!”

“Are you all right?”

Kurt looked up from his perch on the bench, injured finger stuck into his mouth. He swallowed, feeling the blood drain away from his face as he realized he was facing the Earl of Hudson, returned alone from his ride. Quickly, he scrambled to his feet. “My Lord.”

“No, none of that.” Hudson frowned and motioned towards Kurt's hand. “You're hurt?”

He snatched his hand from his lips and clasped it with the other one behind his back. “It's nothing. A stitching injury, that's all.”

“That needle is much larger than the ones the ladies use for their sewing,” the lanky Earl observed, glancing at the leather working needle where it now lay in the dirt. “And they say that those hurt when they prick their fingers. I can only imagine that the one you were using hurt much more.” He stepped closer, freezing Kurt in place with his worried, earnest stare. “May I see? I'd like to be sure you're all right.”

Kurt was helpless to do anything sensible in the face of the Earl's concern for his well-being. Mutely, he extended his injured hand out for the other man's inspection, fighting not to flinch as it was gently clasped by one much larger and warmer than his own. Hudson raised the pale, slender hand of the horseman to his eyes, peering closely at the minor injury.

“I would wash this clean,” he finally said, looking into Kurt's eyes with a small smile on his face. “Here – let me wrap it in something to stop the bleeding. You can use it to wash the wound.” The Earl patted around his coat before finding a fine white linen handkerchief in an inner pocket. Kurt could see the initials JF neatly embroidered in the corner.

“My Lord, I cannot,” he protested, pushing the cloth square back into the young nobleman's hand. “Such fine work, I would not care to ruin it with the blood of a common stableman.”

“Ah, but you are not a common stableman,” the other man responded warmly, his friendly smile growing broadly. “Huntingdon could speak of nothing but the good you and your father have done for his horses in the last several years. A handkerchief is the least I could do for such a highly esteemed individual. Please, take it. My lady has made me many of these. One is nothing.”

“Your...your lady?” A crushing disappointment that perplexed Kurt nearly as much as his desire washed through his body, causing his stomach to feel as if it had dropped to the dirt floor.

“Quinn,” Hudson confirmed, nodding and seeming to not notice the sadness that passed over the young horseman's face. “My wife of only a few months. She is quite handy with a needle herself, like you.” He smiled, his intent to tease evident in the grin. “Perhaps I shall send her out here one day to go on a ride and the two of you can speak of stitches. Though what you do is quite different.”

“Quite.” Kurt broke his eye contact with the Earl and lowered his head to conceal the bitter disappointment he was sure burned in his eyes. “I thank you for the cloth and assistance, then. Shall I assist you with tack and grooming before I tend to my hand?”

“Not at all, I can do it myself,” Hudson replied, waving a hand in dismissal. “Go clean that off before Huntingdon and St. James return, I'm sure they'll need your assistance even as I do not.”

“As you wish.” Kurt trudged off, holding his injured hand close to his body while he made his way to the water pump that brought clean water to the stables. His mind was completely in a mess now, having flown at the highest heights and then dashed itself upon the lowest rocks. He used his good hand to pump out sun-warmed rainwater from the cistern, letting it fall on his wound and clean away the blood.

He wished suddenly that he could just as easily wash away his confusing, worrisome feelings.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

There was a reason that Jesse St. James was the Steward of a major noble house at the young age of twenty-two: he noticed things.

He noticed when a chambermaid was purposely damaging bed linens so that she could take the ruined fabric to a gypsy reseller – he'd had her flogged. He noticed when a serving man was filching nuts and grain from the kitchen and had him flogged, then dismissed. Given the responsibility of the account books when his father fell ill, Jesse noticed discrepancies there and, after careful investigation, discovered that the majordomo had been embezzling funds for months in ways that casual inspection would have not revealed. That man had been flogged and turned out into a winter night with none of his belongings or any food.

Jesse had argued for outright execution. He was overruled. However Lord Huntingdon, pleased with the work of his deceased Steward's son, had seen fit to reward the young man with the position his father had held. Jesse accepted this happily, though it did not quite cover the sting of feeling cheated of justice.

Further, that his own father had either never noticed or cared about that particular infraction was still a source of disappointment to young St. James.

Until now, Jesse had never noticed anything wrong about Kurt Hummel, that obnoxiously good and kind milkmaid-like stableman. Kurt was a disgustingly good son, a boringly diffident servant, and possibly the most well-behaved young man Jesse had ever met in his young life. He always looked at Jesse with an undeserved arrogance in those odd green eyes of his, with contempt in the very tilt of his head. All of this from a lowly stableman with the face of an angel.

Jesse  _hated_ him.

He was always watching and waiting for Kurt to slip up somehow, and today, he gloated, oh, today it had paid off. He did not know what he would do with the information that he had gathered, but he would keep it close and wait for a useful time. Because it  _would_  be useful, he was sure of it.

The most bumbling of idiots couldn't have missed the moment that the stupid young horse tender had fallen head over heels for the lurching, ungainly Earl of Hudson. Jesse was glad that he had excellent self-control – a lesser man would have been unable to conceal his smirk in that moment. And oh, how Jesse had wanted to smirk. To cheer, even, if it came right down to it.

He wondered why it had never occurred to him before. In all the time he had been watching Hummel, he had definitely noticed that the boy never chased lightskirts or even paid much attention to the noble ladies. He had also noticed that Kurt had an unnaturally high, clear voice for a man of his age and that he was uncommonly _pretty_  for a male – not that that meant much, Jesse knew plenty of foppish men who loved the intimate company of women. Still, he had somehow never managed to put those two facts together in any meaningful context until today.

Today, when Kurt Hummel developed an instant infatuation with that Hudson lout. Oh, how Jesse could dance and sing through the streets in triumph.

It was not unheard of for a man to lie with another man, but it was absolutely not accepted, not by society nor by God. It was a taboo subject to even discuss. Were this to get out, it would completely ruin Kurt Hummel, Jesse well knew. Other men would come down upon him and condemn him for being fey, feminine, girlish,  _wrong_. They would insult and abuse him, possibly even assault him. Certainly, in time, the boy could be driven from Raglan and Jesse would never have to look upon his sanctimonious face again.

It was a tempting thought, but Jesse was a careful man, not an impetuous one. This was important information to be held and deployed at a strategic time. He could feel it in the very depths of his bones, in his instincts. Jesse St. James never, ever ignored his instincts.

“...we have intelligence that envoys from Stanley have been visiting Crawford.” Lord Huntingdon's voice pierced into Jesse's thoughts, bringing his attention back to the conversation that the two noblemen were having.

Hudson nodded. “De Vere as well. I am not surprised – Crawford is quite an important man.”

“His neighbor is more important,” Huntingdon replied tightly, his irritation clear in the way he inadvertently squeezed his knees around the torso of his mount, causing the surprised horse to canter sideways until the Earl relaxed. “Dalton.”

“Viscount Dalton?” The younger nobleman could not conceal his surprise, earning more of Jesse's scorn. How could someone of rank be so incompetent at schooling his emotions? “How can a mere viscount with an insignificant holding be more important than one of the highest ranking Lancastrian adherents in the land?”

Huntingdon looked over his shoulder, where his Steward's horse paced a few steps behind those of the nobles. “St. James, I need you.”

Jesse spurred his horse to trot and come level with the other horses. “My hand to your service, my Lord.”

“If you'll explain the importance of our young Viscount Dalton to Hudson here?”

“Certainly.” Jesse turned to face the oafish Earl, plastering a bland, inoffensive smile on his face. “Edward Blaine Anderson, 2nd Viscount Dalton. Liege-lord of Dalton House since his father met his end on the battlefield at Barnet in 1471. He was seven, then, and fully orphaned since his mother had died in childbirth. His mother, of course, having been Katherine Beaufort before her marriage to Neville Anderson.”

Hudson's mouth was in a comical 'o' of surprise. “Ah.” The name  _Beaufort_  was understood by every York loyalist, no matter how moronic they appeared to be.

“Edward was then raised by his mother's sister Alice, Baroness Linwood, whose husband had also perished at Barnet,” Jesse went on. “He is a popular and influential minor noble with a good head on his shoulders and powerful familial connections. The King elected to keep him alive and endowed with his title when he reached his majority since the young man showed no signs of moving against the Crown despite his perhaps understandable distaste towards the House of York. However, that does not mean that he would not join a rebellion against the Crown if the right inducements were offered.”

“Have you been able to find anything out about any inducements that he might accept, St. James? Anything we might be able to intercept?” The Earl of Huntingdon did not consider Jesse to be a mere Steward, of course. He also had the young man acting as one of his intelligence gatherers – his mind much too clever and valuable to waste with the mere management of a household.

“Not as yet, my Lord.” Jesse frowned. He was not accustomed to failure, but there just had been  _nothing_  to find out about Anderson beyond the basic information that anyone could find out. It was nearly as infuriating to the young Steward as waiting for Hummel to trip up had been, and so Jesse had made it as equally personal a mission to uncover something, anything unsavory about the Viscount. “I am of course hard at work finding all that I can. He is remarkably well loved amongst his servants and armsmen; it is not easy.”

“Well, if anyone can find out what we need, it will be you.” The Earl turned a fatherly smile upon the young man he'd known for so very long, since Jesse had been an infant. “Jesse is as invaluable to me as young Hummel and his father,” Herbert informed the Earl of Hudson with a proud grin on his face. Jesse hid a scowl at being lumped in with the filthy horsemen. “I've got an excellent Steward and unmatched Masters of Horse. I am most fortunate.”

“Indeed, I'm sure no man could ask for more,” Hudson replied. A frown flickered across his face as he took in the position of the sun in the sky. “We have been out for some time. I shall need to get back so that I can wash for dinner. Quinn does hate it when I have to rush through getting ready.”

Huntingdon nodded. “I understand. Mary was quite the same way...” He trailed off, and all three men were silent for a moment in the memory of the deceased Countess. “If you remember the way back to the stables, Hudson, why don't you go on ahead of us? I've household matters to discuss with young St. James here, anyway.”

“With your indulgence, sir.” The young Earl nodded in return and wheeled his horse around to head back.

“Household matters, my Lord?” Jesse quirked an amused eyebrow at his liege as Hudson disappeared at a fast canter.

“I didn't say  _whose_  household, now did I?” Huntingdon smiled at his right-hand man. “What's this that you've found about Crawford?”

“He's having a ball for his daughter Amelia's nineteenth birthday in a fortnight,” the young man informed his master. “Many influential Lancastrian families have been invited, Dalton included.”

“The Viscount and Amelia are of similar age,” mused the Earl. “Any word that Crawford might be seeking an alliance with a marriage between the two?”

Jesse shook his head. “Not that I've been able to find, though it would of course be advantageous for both houses. Edward and Amelia have been friends since they were very small. It's possible that they might eventually come to it, even if it isn't planned now.”

“It's something that could be discussed at the ball.” Huntingdon was clearly not happy about that. “See that we have a man in place there. I don't want that sort of alliance to happen, and I want to neutralize Dalton as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Put your best man on it.”

“Certainly, my Lord.” They rode in silence, the grass crunching beneath the hooves of their mounts. Jesse squinted up towards the towers of Raglan Castle that loomed in the distance before them. “Is there anything else you need me to investigate?”

“Hm. No. Not now. I just need you to keep your eyes and ears on Crawford...do you think you can get someone in at Dalton?”

“No, sir. The household is deeply loyal and is carefully managed. They tend to hire only with personal references from their existing staff.”

“We'll have to try harder,” the Earl decided. “Or we'll have to place someone at Crawford who can move between the two households and get us information. I wish I could send you personally, St. James.”

“My Lord?” Jesse could not conceal his surprise.

“You're my best man. If I sent you in there, we'd rout that incipient rebellion in no time.” Huntingdon sighed. “Alas. I cannot get on without you, my indispensible young man.”

“My Lord flatters me.” The Steward bowed his head to reflect a modesty he did not actually feel. He knew that he was the best, cleverest man for this job. “It is appreciated.”

“There will be considerable rewards for you at the end of this, St. James.” The Earl caught Jesse's startled, gratified gaze with his own. “The better you do, the more information you gather, the higher the reward. Remember that.”

As Huntingdon spurred his own mount to a gallop and took off towards his home with a boyish whoop, Jesse sat still in his saddle and stared after the man, a reptilian smile of satisfaction turning the corners of his mouth up. Had anyone been around to see it, they would have shuddered at the naked avarice in his eyes, a malicious, selfish greed that seemed to far exceed his years.

Jesse St. James had always been convinced that he was born to be nobility and that only unkind chance made him the son of a Steward. He had spent his entire life looking to rectify fate's terrible mistake, and here, at last, was his chance. All he had to do was ruin a mere Viscount – and surely the means to do so were just around the corner. He would just have to search more thoroughly, go more deeply into possibility. Jesse would solve this puzzle, save the Crown, and win his rightful place amongst the the nobles that  _should_  have been his peers, _would_  have been if fate hadn't been asleep on the job the day he was born.

With any luck, he could get rid of Viscount Dalton with enough time to spare to run Kurt Hummel out of town as well. Wouldn't  _that_  just be perfect. Jesse felt a tightening in his groin as he thought of it. Nothing aroused the Steward quite as much as the possibility of causing misfortune and grief for people he truly believed deserving of it. Add in the chance to be rewarded for it and it was a wonder he didn't spill himself then and there.

 _Oh, yes_ , Jesse gloated. That ridiculously goody-two-shoes Viscount that the Earl seemed to think was so important, oh, that stupid young man was never going to know what hit him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the night of Amelia Freville's birthday ball, and Blaine has quite a lot on his mind.

Alice Beaufort disliked several things, but at this particular moment in time there were two very specific things of which she was not fond: being kept waiting, and having to shout up the stairs.

 

“ _Edward. Blaine. Anderson._ ” Her voice carried clearly up to the Viscount's chambers, causing Blaine and Thad to freeze where they stood. A slightly awkward situation, that, given that Thad had been bent at his waist, caught in the middle of lacing Blaine's hose to his doublet.

 

“Thad.”

 

“Yes, my Lord?”

 

“I'm not quite comfortable with the current proximity of your hands and head to my...er...” Blaine nodded in the general direction of where his lap would be, were he sitting down. His cheeks were burning brightly red, and he couldn't look Thad in the eyes.

 

“Oh!” The valet still seemed frozen, his fingers tangled in the laces.

 

  
Blaine heaved a gusty sigh. “ _ Thad _ . Sometime this evening, if you will?”   


 

  
Thad shook himself and resumed his work.“Yes. Sorry.” Once he was moving, the lacing was completed in fairly short order and he backed away. “There. Excellent. Now for the finish.” He turned to reach for a gold and black coat that had been neatly laid out on the bed. Blaine moved to the door of his chambers and opened it, leaning out to call down to Alice.   


 

“I'll be right down, Aunt Alice! I'm so sorry!” Returning to his place in the center of the room, he extended his arms to allow the velvet and satin garment to be slipped on and belted around his waist. “You know I hate to keep her waiting,” he complained. “It's ridiculous that I should take longer to prepare for Amelia's ball than she did! You are far, far too fussy about my appearance.”

 

“She began her toilette earlier.” Thad tugged and arranged the loose pleats of the coat in a visually appealing way, refusing to be cowed. “I told you to go upstairs when she did, but you wanted to finish your chess game with Wesley. 'One more turn,' you kept saying.”

 

“I know, I do kno - ”

 

“And now here you are, half-dressed with your aunt shouting up the stairs as if you were a stripling boy all over again. It is, sir, entirely your own fault. Boots.” He leaned down to pick up a pair of black, knee-high leather boots, shoving them towards his master with an indignant sniff.

 

“I'm not half dressed,” Blaine grumbled, accepting the footwear and taking a seat in one of the chairs by the window. “Once I've got these on, I shall go downstairs.” He looked up at the valet, who was brandishing a large comb. “And not another word about my hair, Thad. We've done all that we can.”

 

“It's a complete nest, sir.” Thad could get awfully cruel with his commentary at times, Blaine thought, wounded.

 

“It's perfectly fine,” he snapped. “I can't help it that there's so much of it.”

 

“Why you had to get the Beaufort hair rather than the Anderson...” The valet tucked the comb he'd been prepared to wield back into his beltpouch, a mournful expression on his face. “It's a good thing that Lady Amelia likes it.”

 

“It makes no difference to me whether or not Amelia likes it,” Blaine replied irritably, struggling with his first boot. “It's  _my_  hair.” His foot finally settled into the foot of the boot abruptly, jamming his toes painfully against the cap. He winced and wiggled experimentally. Ah. They'd be fine. He turned his attentions to the second boot, not noticing the dark expression that had come to settle over Thad's face until he glanced up to see why his friend wasn't laughing.

 

  
Thad was looking down at his empty, twisting hands, his voice coming out in a low mutter. “You should marry her while she still thinks it's handsome. You should just... _ marry  _ her, Blaine.”   


 

Blaine froze again, hands stilled in the act of pulling on the second boot. He flicked his eyes to meet Thad's, feeling his face go utterly blank.“Is there a particular reason you're saying that, Thad?”

 

The valet met his gaze only briefly before tearing away again. “I think it's a good idea.”

 

It was getting difficult to speak. Blaine had to force the words out, had to force his hands to move again and keep working on the boot. “No, Thad. It's not – Amelia isn't like that. To me. You  _know_  that.”

 

Thad's eyes, when he looked up again, were darkened with concern. He sucked in deep breath, knowing he'd crossed a line. “I do know.”

 

“And you know  _why_.” With effort, Blaine swallowed down the lump in his throat and began again to tug at the boot. He broke eye contact, unable to look at his friend. “Of all people,  _you_  know.”

 

Three words, repeated, low and worried. “I do know.” And then - “It's for your safety, Blaine.”

 

He got to his feet. “I won't do that to Amelia. She deserves better than...” Trailing off, he snatched up his hat and stalked out of the room, boots thumping down the stairs, communicating his irritation to the entire household.

 

  
Thad had broken their cardinal unspoken rule.  _ We do not discuss this. _  A pact he and his three closest Advisors had made when he was sixteen and realized he would never marry, that he did not want to marry, because -   


 

 _No. We do not discuss this._

 

He arrived at the foot of the stairs under Alice's tolerant, slightly icy glare. Thad had been right – he felt as though he were his awkward twelve year old self once again, all cracking voice and disheveled clothing. The good thing about the awkwardness, however, was that it was slowly burning away his anger at his friend. Blaine bowed to his beloved aunt. “I do apologize, Aunt. Please, please forgive me.”

 

“Have I ever not forgiven you, Edward?” She sighed and kissed his cheek. “You look quite handsome. Unfortunate Beaufort hair and all.”

 

A grin spread across his face despite the reminder of his all too recent uncomfortable conversation. “I am quite fond of my unfortunate Beaufort hair, thank you. And at any rate, you have it as well and I never see you complain.”

 

“Correct, love. You never  _see_  me complain.” Alice tugged at one of her own dark curls, peeping out from beneath a genuinely impressive headdress. An impish smile turned up her lips. “Now, do come along and escort your doddering old aunt to the ball of the year.”

 

“One may call you many things, Aunt, but doddering and old are hardly on that list.” He extended his arm for her to take. “I take it the carriage is ready?”

 

“It has been for some time. We're going to be late, you know.” Her tone was both indulgent and chiding as she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow and pinched playfully.

 

He winced. “I'm so sorry, Aunt. I will make it up to you.”

 

“You already have,” the Baroness replied airily, waving a free hand to indicate her gown. “Thank you for my ensemble.”

 

“You assumed I'd be late?” Blaine cast an appraising eye over the cloth of gold gown, trimmed and embroidered in black satin. No wonder Thad had put him in this doublet and cloak; he had to have been involved in the gown selection. “Just how late did you think I would be?”

 

“Late enough. Do I look quite fetching for an aging widow?” Alice tilted her head and batted her eyelashes in mock coquetry.

 

Blaine rolled his eyes at his aunt. “Aunt Alice, you would look fetching for a young girl in the bloom of first love. You needn't fish for praise.”

 

“No, but it is quite entertaining, and you do give the best compliments, Edward.” They arrived in the courtyard where their carriage awaited, horses stamping impatiently to be off. One of the pages held the carriage door open so that Blaine could hand his aunt up into it, following behind and sitting to face her. They braced themselves on the seats as the coachman shouted the horses into motion. “Did Wesley select an appropriate gift for Amelia?”

 

“Yes, Aunt.” His Steward had come through with a pretty little illuminated songbook, the companion to one Blaine already owned and that he and Amelia often sang from. She would like having her own copy, he thought. “Her own copy of our songbook.”

 

Alice tilted up one dark eyebrow. “Hm. Well, it's not jewelry, but even so...Edward, are you sure that's quite wise? Many of those are love songs. Are you quite certain you've no intentions towards Amelia?”

 

He looked out of the window of the carriage, feeling his mouth tighten. Not Alice, too. “You know that I haven't.”

 

His aunt sighed, and he turned his head back to see just a glimmer of her eyes in the twilit evening. They were sad and worried, as they always were when their conversations wandered this unpleasant way. “Edward...must it be...”

 

Blaine glanced away. “I know no other way for it to be, Aunt. I will not put myself nor Amelia through it. That's the end of it.”

 

 _We do not discuss this._

 

  
The rest of the carriage ride was spent in silence. Better silence than to further disappoint his aunt, who, like his friends, knew why Blaine did not wish to marry Amelia. She only pushed out of love and concern, he knew, not because she was disappointed  _ with  _ him or  _ in  _ him. She wanted what she thought was best for him, as she always had.   


 

“You're so young,” Alice said unexpectedly as they approached Crawford Keep. “You think you're invincible.”

 

“I'm under no such illusions, Aunt Alice.” He crossed his arms across his chest, knowing where she was leading. Thad he could stop in his tracks, but Alice tended to follow a point like a hound hunting the scent of a fox. She was nearly impossible to shake off when she truly got her wind up.

 

“People can talk. They can find out, and they can talk. You can be ruined, Edward.” She bit her lip as she plucked at her skirts. “I would not like to see you as the object of malicious gossip...or worse.”

 

  
He sighed and moved to sit beside her, clasping her small hands in his. “I know. Nor do I wish your name dragged through the mud with mine.” His mouth firmed with resolve. “That's why there will be no one, ever. It's perfectly acceptable to be a bachelor, you know. I can always adopt or foster an heir, when I feel ready. But I won't court any woman, won't marry one I can't properly be a husband to, and I won't...I'm not going to...” Blaine ducked his head. “There will be no one.”   


 

  
That seemed to distress Alice even more, and she pulled one hand free to flit it worriedly around his hair, cup his cheek, pull him close for a hug. “Edward, Edward, you should not have to live such a lonely life, either. I want so much more for you. You deserve so much more.”   


 

  
Blaine captured her fluttering hand and brought it back to her lap. “Aunt Alice. I have so much already. I can forgo companionship. It seems a small price to pay to ensure that we are safe. That  _ you  _ are safe. Your safety and good reputation is of paramount importance to me. You're all the family I have. I won't risk that.” He lifted her hand back up and pressed a kiss to the back of it. She tugged her hand free and wrapped her arms around him, embracing him tightly.   


 

“You are my joy and the son of my heart, Edward. I wish for more for you because I love you.”

 

  
He smiled. “I know.” Glancing out of the carriage window, he saw that they were pulling in to the courtyard at Crawford. “At last, here we are. Do you suppose you're ready for a night of slapping old man Crawford's wandering fingers away?”   


 

“Edward, you naughty boy.” Alice swatted at the back of his head. “I raised you better than that.”

 

“You did,” he agreed. “But boys will be boys. Out you get!” He hopped down through the carriage door that Crawford's footman had pulled open, turning to assist his aunt to the ground. “Shall we?”

 

“Absolutely, my darling.” But her bright smile as she took his arm was still faintly ghosted with the regrets she felt for him, and not for the first time in his life, Blaine wondered why things couldn't be as neat and tidy as they should have been.

 

  
~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~   


 

  
He'd been thirteen the first time it happened.   


 

Blaine had awoken from the dream of himself, sweaty and tangled in the arms of another  _man_ , and he'd panicked. The sheets were warm and damp with the evidence of his spent dream-lust, his head was spinning, and he didn't  _understand._ He'd thought he was supposed to dream about  _girls._ Women. Young ladies. Not men.

 

Mortified, he'd stripped his bed of its linens and shredded the sheets with his dagger, carefully feeding the strips of cloth one by one into the fire until they were all gone. He'd tiptoed down the dark hall with only a tiny candle to guide him, finding where Emma kept the clean bedding, and pulling out enough sheets to remake his bed as silently as possible. Later, when the housekeeper wondered aloud why she was short a set of sheets in her monthly inventory, he'd just shrugged and told her that he thought she worried too much.

 

  
At fifteen, he'd kissed two people: Amelia, and Thad.   


 

  
Kissing Amelia had been nice, he supposed. She was pretty, and she always smelled like flowers. They'd been in the music room at Crawford, singing together – his voice had recently broken, and he was getting used to the new way he sounded.   


 

  
He remembered that Amelia had been wearing royal blue satin, her blonde curls spilling over her shoulders and gleaming richly against the fabric of her dress. Her skin was the perfect English rose and cream that was so vaunted, her lips pink and full. She was so, so pretty, and that prettiness was not exciting Blaine at all. He appreciated it, and liked to look at her, but that was all.   


 

  
Still, he had continued to have his confusing dreams for the last two years, and he had finally decided to sort himself out once and for all, to see for himself what he wanted.   


 

  
So he'd sidled up next to Amelia, had taken her hand in his and pulled her close to him, had leaned in slowly and pressed his lips to hers. She'd been surprised, her blue eyes widening before she leaned into the kiss, breath sharp through her nose as her eyelids fluttered shut.   


 

It had meant so much more to her than it had to him. It was nice, that was all. Not offensive, but not exciting or passionate or anything he'd heard his father's armsmen discussing.

 

  
When it was Thad's turn, everything, everything was different.   


 

  
They were friends then, though he'd already let Wes, David, and Thad know that they would have important, trusted positions as his Advisors when he attained his majority. But friends, now, so they frequently went about together, riding, boxing, sparring...swimming.   


 

  
David and Wes were busy with lessons when he and Thad went down to the small, clear lake on Dalton's grounds. Alone. Which was something that had never mattered before now, before the  _ dreams,  _ before kissing Amelia had been nothing more than a pleasant way to spend five minutes of a sunny afternoon.   


 

  
He'd chosen Thad out of his three trusted companions because David was too rough and Wes was too sharp around the edges somehow, but Thad was kind and good natured. It felt like the right thing to do, most especially so when they disrobed to go swimming and Blaine felt his groin tighten at the sight of Thad's surprisingly leanly muscled body.   


 

  
A flash of fear coursed through him at the thought of what he was about to do, but he ignored it and strode over to his friend, reaching up before he could think too much, pulling the older boy's head down, opening his mouth under the surprised 'O' that Thad's lips suddenly made. He gasped as their lips made contact, rocked under the force of the lightning strike that shot through him from his head to his toes. When Thad fisted a hand in Blaine's curls and dragged him even closer, let his tongue dive down into Blaine's mouth and explore the softness there – Blaine nearly came undone then.   


 

  
He held on, though, held on long enough to be wrestled down to the cool, green grass and brought to a sloppy, inexpert climax by Thad's warm mouth. Blaine gasped out his uncontrollable joy under the English sunshine, reveling in the bruising grip of Thad's fingers at the backs of his thighs, the feel of the other boy's mouth and hands on his cock beyond anything he could ever have imagined. Blaine's hands clenched at handfuls of waving grass as he came, hips arching upward, his entire body tightening like a bowstring before relaxing into a sun-warmed and passion-spent jumble of limbs as he returned to earth.   


 

  
When he opened his eyes again, Blaine saw only Thad, leaning over him in the sunshine with a shy, questioning smile. He grabbed wildly at his friend again, pulling him down for more kisses and then, slowly and with caution, he repaid the favor of pleasure to the best of his ability. Tentatively, he traced the landscape of Thad's body with his lips and tongue, taking tiny nips and bites on his journey south before closing his own mouth around the other boy's straining member. Groaning low in his throat, lips stretched around the warm, velvety firmness of his trusted friend, Blaine thrilled at the feel of his hair being pulled when Thad lost all control and reached his peak with a broken moan, spilling himself down Blaine's throat.   


 

  
They did eventually get around to swimming, but it took them quite a long time.   


 

 _This_ , then, was how it was supposed to feel, where a kiss was supposed to lead. He knew what the Church had to say about it and he found, with the headstrong stubbornness of youth, that he didn't care, that he'd walk across coals of fire to feel that lightning strike again. And so Blaine and Thad were virtually inseparable for a very long time after that, nights spent together learning  _everything_  about each other's bodies, touches and caresses and kisses, heat and sweat and sex, each boy growing more proficient in his knowledge of the other until they didn't know where one ended and the other began.

 

  
That they had remained friends after Alice and Amelia caught them in the linen closet, Blaine on his knees fellating Thad, the older boy bracing himself against the shelves, both of them blind and deaf with lust – well, it had been nothing short of a miracle. The women had been surprisingly understanding, but firm. It had to end.   


 

“I don't mind that you don't want to marry me, Blaine,” Amelia had told him, her eyes wide and earnest with concern. “You're one of my best friends, I love you no matter what. But the Church says it isn't right...you must be good. Don't you want to go to Heaven?”

 

 _  
I thought I already had,  _ he wanted to retort, but refrained because he knew she meant well and didn't understand.   


 

  
Alice was unconcerned about the Church, and more concerned about his reputation. “I don't believe it's  _ wrong _ , love,” she'd told him, wringing her hands. “But other people do, and it is they about whom you must be concerned. Your reputation canbe made or destroyed on the back of idle gossip. You're too young to be ruined.”   


 

“It's absolutely ridiculous,” he had protested. “The privacy of my bedchamber should remain mine. And it isn't as if I can put Thad up the pole.”

 

If his aunt was startled by his crudeness, she didn't show it. She kept a steady gaze on him as she spoke. “And yet the privacy of anyone's bedroom is  _not_ theirs alone, it never has been, and they won't  _care_ that there'd be no illegitimate children from you. They would  _rather_ you sow a crop of bastards than be caught with a man, Edward. You're too young to understand the ramifications. I love you, my darling, but this cannot go on.”

 

  
She had been firm, unyielding. Thad would be allowed to stay, but their affair was over.   


 

It was then that he spoke with all three of them, admitting to David and Wes what he and Thad had done, had been to each other. They had been understanding and accepting.  _Everyone_ had been understanding and accepting, so much so that Blaine couldn't understand why it would be such a problem if he just did what he wanted.

 

  
But his friends were in accordance with Alice and Amelia. They loved Blaine,  _ they  _ didn't care who he was with, but they knew other people would and they did not want him hurt or ruined. It was with regret that Thad kissed him one last time, the strike of lightning dimmed by melancholy, and whispered that he would never forget what they'd had.   


 

  
It had hurt, so much, and he supposed that  _ this _ , too, was where a kiss was supposed to lead. He could have done without it. That was when he vowed – no one else. Ever. He would never marry, because he did not want to cause any woman the pain that he felt then, the pain that he knew he would cause no matter how gently he rejected her.   


 

  
And since his reputation was so  _ very  _  important, he'd snapped bitterly, he would never jeopardize it by laying with another man ever again, either.   


 

  
Then he made them all vow to never discuss it, ever.   


  
  
  


~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

“Blaine?”

 

Amelia's sweet, anxious voice cut through the fog of his memories. He came back to the present, meeting her worried blue eyes with a smile. “Hello, pretty. I'm sorry I was wit-wandering.”

 

She blushed lightly, the pink of her cheeks going even rosier with the compliment. “That's all right. I'm used to it by now.” Reaching down, she curled her fingers with his, pressing their arms together briefly and smiling before pulling away. “Did I tell you? I received your present. Thank you, I'm so pleased to have my own copy of our music.”

 

A smile went across Blaine's face. “Excellent. That's wonderful, I'm glad you like it. Not that you need it, I know,” he teased. “You've memorized every song in there.”

 

When she shook her head with laughter, Amelia's curls bounced and glimmered in the lamplight. “Not quite all. Besides, it's quite a lovely book. The illuminations are breathtaking. I would adore it for those alone, the music is an added enticement.”

 

“I'm glad you like it.” Blaine smiled and lifted their entwined hands so that he could press a kiss to the back of hers. “Have you enjoyed the dancing thus far this evening?”

 

“As ever.” She blinked entreatingly at him, and he knew what she would ask next. “Won't you join me for the volta, though, Blaine? You've been standing aside all night and not dancing with anyone. That's not right and you know it.”

 

“Ah, come now, Amelia, do I have to dance at every ball?” He was teasing again, of course. Blaine loved to dance. He just preferred to dance with Amelia, and she'd been busy taking turns around the dance floor with various potential suitors. This was the first moment that they'd been able to speak since he arrived with Alice, who was just now across the room batting away Lord Crawford's wandering hand. Blaine grinned and winked at his aunt, who rolled her expressive eyes back at him.

 

Amelia was tugging at his arm. “No one dances it as well as you do, and I wouldn't trust anyone else to not take liberties. Nor would Papa.” She glanced over at her father, who was smiling and raising his cup of ale in their direction. “He knows you think of me only respectfully.”

 

“I do, at that, and you're the best dancer here.” He relented, as she knew he would. “Of course I'll spin you around the room a time or two, 'Melia.” Blaine's smile was fond, and he wished fleetingly that he did love this lovely, bright star of a girl the way she deserved to be loved. He knew that no one else could love her properly, no one else would see her as anything but a nobleman's daughter with a good inheritance and a powerful father. They wouldn't care that she liked to read literature, an unusual trait in a girl of their time. Nor might they care that she spoke beautiful French or that she sang like an angel.

 

Blaine did not love Amelia the 'proper' way, but he did love her in his way and he did worry about her. He simply could not subject her to a sham marriage, not even if it was to protect the both of them from the cruelty of the world outside. It would only wound her grievously in the end, and he would not be the one to put that knife to his dearest friend's heart.

 

The musicians struck up a stately tune then, causing Amelia to squeal and clasp him by the wrist. “Come, Blaine! It's time!” She pulled him onto the floor, where a space instantly cleared for the young couple. It was widely regarded as a treat to watch the two of them dance.

 

The volta was a dance that managed to be exuberant, intimate, rushed and slow at the same time. With smiles on their faces, Blaine and Amelia paced each other on opposite sides of a wide circle, spiraling inward until their hands met. With a quick squeeze of his pretty friend's hand, Blaine twirled her and then brought his hands to her waist, lifting her into the air as he turned, bringing her slowly down to the floor so that they could begin the process again.

 

It was a dance that often caused whispers of scandal, but everyone in the room had known the two young dancers since they were small children, knew that Blaine was a chivalrous man with a wide streak of loyalty and protectiveness towards Amelia Freville. Even if a malicious word crossed anyone's mind, no one would dare whisper it aloud. Not with Alice Beaufort there, not at all within Lord Crawford's hearing.

 

They made a pretty picture, though, Blaine in his black and gold, Amelia in a deep red gown that made her fair skin glow. For the first time, people began to eye them speculatively and wonder if a marriage wasn't imminent. Amelia was nineteen now, after all, and Blaine was twenty. Were they not both more than of age? Did they not make an attractive couple? Had they not essentially been together for all of their lives anyway?

 

Blaine and Amelia were too busy enjoying the dancing to hear the buzz of curiosity that was suddenly swarming the room, but Alice wasn't, and she bit her lip in worry.

 

Soon enough the dance was over, and the pair moved off of the dance floor to listen to the provincial vocalist that Lord Crawford kept on staff to give his daughters singing lessons. “How are your lessons with Master Schuester going, Amelia?” Blaine asked, keeping hold of the girl's hand as they enjoyed the dulcet tones of the music teacher. He did not miss the sad downturn of her lips before she replied.

 

“They are not,” she replied, eyes slightly watery. “Master Schuester has declared his intention to return to the Low Countries. This is his last performance for us. Lessons have been over for a sennight.”

 

“Oh, Amelia.” Blaine angled his head in commiseration. “I'm so sorry. I know you liked to learn from him.”

 

She nodded, her lower lip pushed out in a delicate pout. “Papa is already looking for a new teacher, but none shall be so pleasing to look upon as Master William. I am distraught.”

 

This made Blaine roll his eyes playfully. “I can see that.” They laughed together, her musical giggles striking another blow at his regretful heart.  _Oh, 'Melia._  He couldn't stand it any more, had to get out of the room and  _talk_ to her. Amelia was both the one person who stood to gain the most if they were to marry and the one who wanted it even less than he did. She would understand his frustration over the events of the day.

 

“Come.” He pulled at her hand, steering her towards the entryway. “Let us go walk.”

 

She pulled back, exaggerating her pout. “No, Blaine, I want to - ”

 

“Please, Amelia.” He switched to French, making her eyes grow wide. They only spoke French when they wanted to communicate with relative privacy – no one else around them spoke as well as they did. “Come, walk with me.”

 

Amelia glanced around the room briefly before nodding. “All right. For you I give up my last chance to hear my true love sing.”

 

“You wound me, Amelia. I thought that I  _was_  your true love.” Blaine smiled at her, ignoring the ache in his heart as they slipped from the room, making their way through the hallways of Crawford Keep to the door that led to the garden maze.

  
“You are my true friend, Blaine.” Her sweet smile tugged at his heartstrings. “You will ever be my first kiss and my loyal friend.”

  
“A greater reward no man can ask.” Blaine pushed the door open and escorted Amelia out into the rose scented night air. “I do love your gardens in the moonlight.”

  
“Papa has excellent gardeners,” Amelia agreed. “I expect they create with the express purpose of the garden looking lovely in the sunlight or moonlight.” She reached back to catch at his hand. “Now. Tell me what is wrong.”

  
He squirmed and looked away. “Who is to say that anything is wrong?”

  
“I'm not stupid, Blaine.” Her tone was lightly scolding, telling him that she would brook no protest. “We are not walking in the garden, conversing in French, for our health. And you've been distracted all evening. Something has upset you.”

  
For all that Alice frequently accused Amelia of being the daffiest of Lord Crawford's batty daughters, Blaine knew full well the girl was no such thing. He gave in, knowing it was easier to capitulate than to subject himself to Amelia's increasingly pointed questioning. “Aunt Alice and Thad were talking about us marrying again.”

  
She raised her head in a slow nod of understanding. “I see.”

  
“Amelia...” He drew her close, tucking her hand under his arm as they paced along the pebbled paths. “You do know that I love you dearly, don't you?”

  
“Of course I do.” The words were laced with sweet agreement, her smile full of sunlight and affection. Amelia was sure of many things, but none more than this. It was a fact like needing air to breathe or eating food to live.

  
Blaine struggled to speak. “I wish I could love you more. Properly.”

  
“Oh, Blaine.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “You love me enough. I thought we were past this.” Her free hand wandered out and carefully snapped a red rose from one of the bushes they passed, lifting the bloom to her nose and inhaling delicately. “And you know I do not wish to marry you either.”

  
“No one else seems to care to understand that,” he muttered. “Silence for years and then today - !”

  
“They mean well.”

  
“I know. For both of us. It's only frustrating. It feels like I'm somehow hurting you with my refusal, even though I know I'm not. And I don't like to hurt you, 'Melia.” He would take a knifewound for her, this girl who was like his sister. If he could find a way to protect and care for her without marrying her, he would do it.

  
She shook her head, a stubborn expression on her face. “I have told you so many times, Blaine. You do not hurt me.” Lifting the rose, she brought it up for him to smell. “Things are how they are. It is not your fault that you wish to lie with men - ”

  
Swiftly, Blaine clapped a gentle hand over her mouth. “Shh! Amelia, by God, for all that is holy, do not say such things aloud.” Looking around in a panic, he relaxed only slightly when he saw that the nearest people were quite a distance away, certainly out of earshot. “We know why I cannot marry you, there is no need to speak where anyone could hear.”

  
She pulled his hand away and scoffed lightly. “We are alone, speaking in French, Blaine. There is no one to care.”

  
They did not know it, but there was indeed someone to care, a nameless, shadowed figure who was pacing them on the other side of the rosebush wall, where Blaine had not thought to look. The head of the listener came up in interest at Amelia's slip, wondering if it was enough to take back to his master.

  
French was only a good language for private conversation if one could be certain that other French speakers were not nearby listening. Blaine and Amelia were the best speakers of the language at their respective homes – but most people of the King's court spoke it, something neither young person knew, as they'd never been presented there. Knowing from reports that Blaine and Amelia frequently spoke the language to each other, Jesse St. James had been sure to send a spy who spoke it as well, just in case.

  
Their blanket of privacy was suddenly stripped away from them, and they did not know it.

  
“Still, Amelia, you are one who impressed upon me how dangerous my...proclivities...could be. And now with the information that David has given me, it is ever more important that I am careful, apparently.” Blaine's voice was bitter and angry. Amelia tucked the rose behind her ear and squeezed his arm with sympathetic affection.

  
“All right. I apologize.” She gently steered him to a stone bench at the edge of the path, pushing him down and gathering her skirts close so that she could take a seat next to him and lean her head back on his shoulder. “As long as you know that you do not hurt me, that I do love you dearly in return, and that I wish you wouldn't torment yourself over this. I know that you've thought about it before today as well.”

  
Blaine sighed. “Amelia, you are entirely too perceptive for my own good.”

  
She slapped at his knee. “I regret nothing.” They laughed together again, releasing light music into the night air before lapsing into silence. For several moments they sat companionably, until Amelia lifted her head from his shoulder as she remembered something. “What information?”

  
He glanced down at her, confused. “What?”

  
“You said David gave you information. What information?”

  
“Oh. That.” Blaine shook his head, curls tumbling down over his furrowed eyebrows. “He thinks war is to come. And that somehow I shall play an important part.” He pressed back a frisson of fear at the thought. “If that is true, I must be so careful. I don't want to lead, but I will be forced to – and no one will listen to me if they know about... _that_.”

  
Understanding dawned in her wide blue eyes, quickly replaced with distress. “Blaine. Not war, surely.”

  
He could have kicked himself for letting that out without thinking. Amelia adored her Papa and knew that if war came, he too would be in the thick of things. “I'm so sorry, 'Melia. I didn't mean to let that out like that.” Pulling her into an embrace, Blaine felt that she was wooden with fear. Worried, he ran his hands up and down her arms to try and make her relax. “I'm sorry. Please don't let me ruin your birthday. I'm a cad and a fool, Amelia. You can't listen to me.”

  
“But why, Blaine? Why must it come?” She wouldn't let it go, grabbing at his hands like a lifeline. “Are things not good as they are?”

  
“Those wiser than I seem to think not.” Blaine replied slowly, confronting the reality of his thoughts as he had a fortnight ago alone in his chambers. “And though it is taking me some time, I think am coming to agree with them.”

  
Tears were rolling down Amelia's cheeks now. “And why? Why must you be involved? Papa I understand, but do you have to, truly?”

  
Untangling his hands from hers, he lifted them to cup her face and wipe her tears away with his thumbs. “Oh, 'Melia. I think that I must. I am a Beaufort. I think there must be no way I cannot be involved. For honor, for family, for what is right for England. Shh, shh, please, please don't cry.”

  
As Amelia tried to quiet her weeping, the clandestine listener slipped away into the night, silent as a prowling cat. He had heard enough. Time to return to his master with all that he knew. He would be well rewarded for his evening's work.

  
Behind him, in the garden, Blaine offered as much comfort as he could to his dear friend, untainted for now by the knowledge that his life was suddenly teetering on the precipice of fate, perilously close to being dashed on the rocks of misfortune.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt's world is turned upside down by Jesse St. James.

Over the last month, Kurt had encountered the Earl of Hudson on several occasions – he would ride over to visit with the Earl of Huntingdon nearly every other day – and each time his head spun and his stomach felt as though it were full of butterflies.

 

It never lessened in its intensity, if anything it seemed to be growing, and Kurt had no idea what to make of it or what to do about it. He still had not managed to speak to anyone about his confusing feelings, still was not sure why it was something no one spoke about. He didn't even feel comfortable bringing it up to his father – after all, if it were something that everyone knew about and accepted, surely his father would have spoken to  _him_  about it, wouldn't he? And yet all Kurt ever remembered him talking about was the day when Kurt could marry a pretty English girl like his mother had been.

 

It was a problem he wasn't sure he knew how to solve. He was just a stableman, after all. Smarter than most, he knew – he could read and write and do basic figuring, and he could sing passably well – but still, in the end, a man who worked with horses, and only that because he didn't know what else he  _could_  do.

 

Needing a distraction from his perplexing thoughts, Kurt threw himself into his work. The horses in Raglan's stables had always been well taken care of; now they were all but spoiled. Kurt was constantly in and out of different stalls, brushing down horses, making sure they always had fresh hay, giving them sweet feed and exercising the ones that didn't get ridden often.

 

The stables had never been so clean, the horses never so happy, the other stablemen never so delighted to have less to do, and Kurt was so exhausted by the time evening descended that he fell directly into heavy, dreamless sleep every night. Which as far as he was concerned was an ideal state.

 

Burt Hummel noticed the increased work that his son was taking on and watched him carefully, brow furrowed in worry as he tried to work out what was happening. He grew especially worried when he realized that the birdlike singing that usually accompanied Kurt at his chores seemed to have...stopped.

 

His son was too busy, he wasn't singing, and he seemed to be distracted by something. Burt wanted to know what.

 

“Kurt,” he began one brisk October morning, watching the young man haul buckets of water into the stalls while the other stable tenders sat around talking amongst themselves of pretty maids and drink. His son jumped slightly, slopping water across the knees of his breeches as he turned to gaze at Burt with wide, wary eyes. “Kurt, explain, please, what you do?”

 

“I'm bringing water to the horses,” Kurt replied, an accurate enough response that still seemed an evasion to Burt. He frowned.

 

“Vin and Marcus can also haul water. You do not let them.”

 

“I can do it.” Kurt's face set in a familiar mulish expression that Burt saw frequently in his own mirror. “I  _want_  to do it. Father, if the work is done, what does it matter who does it?”

 

“It matters to me. Vin! Marcus!” Burt clapped sharply to get the attention of the other men idling around the stables. “You will water the horses. Kurt, you will come with me so that we may speak.”

 

Kurt stifled his groan but obediently handed his bucket to Marcus. “About time ladyboy let us do some work around here,” the coarser man joked, not noticing Burt's thunderous glare at the epithet.

 

“We sure enjoyed the break, though!” Vin was more genial, slapping Kurt on the back and grinning as he passed by with his own bucket. Kurt smiled weakly at the other men before trailing along behind his father. Burt stopped outside of the stable doors and affixed his son with a stern, fatherly gaze.

 

“Now,” he growled, his Austrian roots more evident than usual in the gutteral edge of his words. “You tell me, Kurt, why you work to dropping each night. I see you, you know. I watch. You work too hard!”

 

“I like hard work!” Kurt protested, throwing his hands in the air. “I don't like being lazy.”

 

“Yes, this I know,” Burt agreed. “But the last month you work even harder. Tell me why.” His voice softened, the green eyes so similar to his son's gentling as he reached to place a hand on the young man's shoulder. “You are important to me, son. If things are wrong, I want to know.”

 

 _ No, I think you don't, _  Kurt thought in anguish, searching for a reason he could give his father. As much as Burt loved him, and he knew that he did, Kurt didn't think he would understand. “I...I guess I got used to it, while you were ill.”  _ There. _  That had happened about the same time as the Earl of Hudson. A perfect excuse. “I was worried, Father. So I began to work harder so that I didn't concentrate on worrying and hanging over you. You know you hate it when I mother you.” He bit his lip and tried to hide his hope that his father would accept that.

 

Burt grunted. “That is true enough. Hm. Well. I am fine now, Kurt. You can relax. Why don't you go work on that bridle that young St. James damaged? That's work, but you can sit. Go.” He smiled. “Perhaps you can sing, yes? I have not heard you in so long.” He pushed Kurt into the darkness of the stable. “No more lifting and carrying today, son.”

 

Motivated by his father's shove, Kurt stumbled to where the bridles were hanging and pulled down the one his father had indicated, a lovely dark mahogany leather that he  _ knew _  St. James had damaged on purpose, but couldn't prove. He swallowed hard and trudged back to the doorway and assumed his seat on the bench with his needles and thread. This wouldn't take long, and it wouldn't occupy his mind the way he needed. While he loved his father and knew Burt meant well, this was torture.

 

Well, he would just have to live with it.

 

Burt beamed at him and nodded encouragingly when Kurt began the process of removing the damaged bridle strap and opened his mouth to sing.

 

 _ Our king went forth to Normandy _

_ With grace and might of chivalry... _

 

He hadn't realized how much he'd missed singing while he stitched until Burt had pointed it out. It was easy, then to lose himself in the minutiae of what he was doing, singing quietly as he worked.

 

“Hummel, you  _sing_ , do you?”

 

Disrupted in his reverie, Kurt's head jerked up when he heard Jesse St. James' surprised, yet still somehow contemptuous drawl. “I...yes?”

 

“Hm. Interesting.” The Steward was leaning in the stable doorway, his mouth turned up in a smile of amusement. “The many talents of Kurt Hummel. My, my, my.” He nodded towards the bridle in Kurt's hands. “How much longer until that's repaired?”

 

“It's done.” Kurt set the last stitch and knotted the linen thread, cutting it with his knife.

 

“Good. Lords Huntingdon and Hudson are nearly here. We'll want to ride. Saddle up our mounts.” Jesse's voice was dismissive, yet the twinkle in his eyes was too malicious and knowing for Kurt's comfort. “Oh, and Hummel, meet me in my work chambers tomorrow after you break your fast.”

 

“What for?”

 

“To speak with me.” St. James smirked, and Kurt knew he'd get no more out of the Steward than that. His nose wrinkled in irritation as he watched the man push away from the door and turn to meet the Earls, who were just strolling up. At the sight of John Finnegan's warm, friendly smile, Kurt spun on his heel and fled into the shadows of the stable, calling out to his father to saddle mounts for the riders.

 

Outside, Jesse smiled and bowed to the noblemen. “Regarding that matter of which we spoke earlier, my Lord...Viscount Dalton?”

 

“Yes, St. James?”

 

“I believe I may have a solution. If I may have your leave to attend to it tomorrow in the late morning?”

 

“Of course!” The Earl beamed proudly at his Steward. “You see, Hudson? There's nothing Mr. St. James can't do for me!”

 

Jesse looked back over his shoulder to see Kurt fidgeting in the shadows, trying to catch a glimpse of Hudson without getting caught doing so. Oh, how perfectly were the stars suddenly aligning! If this was not proof that Jesse St. James was destined for greater things, he did not know what  _ could _  be.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Kurt knocked at the door to the Steward's chamber, a light tap just to let St. James know he was there before he pushed the door open. He didn't feel the need to wait for permission to enter; after all, St. James had demanded his presence at this time. They had an appointment. Besides, it had always annoyed Kurt how superior the Steward thought he was to the Hummels, as if they weren't actually technically equals. Any opportunity he could get to remind the man of that should be seized, Kurt felt.

 

In retrospect, he would conclude that he could have done without seizing this one.

 

He stood, frozen in the doorway, fingers clenched around the door handle and cheeks as furiously pink as the dress that the girl writhing on the desk was wearing. Of St. James, he could see very little – no, that wasn't true. He was actually seeing quite a lot more of the man than he'd ever, ever wanted to see. In point of fact, Kurt could see his bare buttocks and legs, hose puddled down around his boots. The rest of the Steward was obscured by the skirts of the girl he was pleasuring, a silly little blonde Kurt vaguely recognized as one of the chambermaids.

 

The girl – Miss Pierce, his mind offered as if trying to be helpful – was alternating between giggles of delight and gasps of carnal joy as St. James did...whatever it was he was doing with his head pushed up under her dress. She hadn't noticed Kurt and neither, obviously, had the Steward.

 

There was a third party in the sordid tableau, however, and she most certainly  _had_  noticed Kurt. She just didn't care. The Spanish chambermaid he often saw with Miss Pierce was kneeling between St. James' booted feet, idly yet expertly manipulating his manhood with her lips and fingers. Her mildly amused gaze held Kurt's horrified one trapped as she performed her task with the barest minimum enthusiasm she could muster.

 

Kurt hadn't at all known that one could smirk around a mouthful of cock. It was a revelation he was quite certain he could have lived without.

 

On the desk, the blonde gasped and slapped at St. James' head under her skirts. “Oh! You  _bit_  me...wait...my _God_ , I care not...” Her head dropped back, puddling her golden hair on the desktop as her gasps escalated into ecstatic squeals. This seemed to be the Spanish girl's cue to step up her pace, as she broke her staring contest with Kurt and applied herself to fellating St. James with more dedication than she had previously exhibited.

 

And Kurt still,  _still_ could not move. It felt as though his boots were nailed to the floor.

 

With the increased attention from the Spanish maid, St. James's climax was not long in coming, mercifully interrupting his lewd moans with one long, protracted groan before he went silent and finished off Miss Pierce in a flurry of rapturous shrieks. Slowly, he emerged from beneath her skirts with a vulgar smirk on his face as he wiped the back of one hand across his mouth. His mane of chestnut waves tumbled every which way in disarray from being under a skirt. “Excellent work as always, Senorita,” he purred, reaching down to pull her to her feet. “Now, let's see if I can repay – oh.” His eyes fell upon Kurt and his smirk grew into a deeply satisfied grin. “I see we have an audience. Mr. Hummel, did you enjoy the show?”

 

“I...we...” Kurt stammered lamely. “We had...we had an appointment.”

 

“And may I laud your punctuality nearly, but not quite as highly, as Miss Lopez' cocksucking skills?” The Steward raised an arrogant eyebrow as he squeezed the dark haired beauty's buttocks possessively. “Though I doubt she'll feel the same way about you when she realizes I suddenly have no time to return the favor.”

 

Miss Lopez' dark eyes widened in fury as she heard this, and she stomped one slippered foot down onto the soft leather boots that St. James wore on his feet. “ _Puta de madre_ ,” she spat, seizing the blonde girl by the wrist and dragging her out of the room, aiming a fiery glare at Kurt when she passed by. She made sure to slam the door behind her, causing a loud report to echo through the room and down the hallway.

 

Kurt thought St. James might be furious with him for getting him injured, but when he glanced at the man, he was flexing his foot and laughing. “I find it quite funny that she thinks those flimsy little shoes she wears are capable of any damage whatever.” He was dismissive as he pulled up his hose and refastened them to his shirt, looking back up at Kurt as he managed the laces. “Don't just stand there looking like someone's just hit you over the head with a board, Hummel. You're acting like you've never seen anything like that before.”

 

But he  _hadn't._

 

St. James was keeping a steady, amused gaze on him as he pulled his doublet over his head. “Horses  _fuck_ , don't they, Hummel?”

 

Kurt ignored the question as he shakily fought to regain composure. “Miss Lopez seemed upset with you.”

 

The Steward waved his hand, rounding his desk and taking a seat. “She'll find an empty room and let Miss Pierce take care of her troubles,” he replied, shrugging. “Have a seat.”

 

“Really, given what I've just seen, I'd rather not,” Kurt snapped, wondering what the other man had meant about the maids, but not daring to ask. “I have no idea what you get up to on any of the furniture in here. I'll stand, thank you.”

 

“Suit yourself.” St. James leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, that amused gaze never leaving Kurt's face. “You are... _such_ an enigma, Hummel.”

 

Kurt frowned. “I don't know what you mean.”

 

“A mystery, my dear horse lover, an unknown quantity, a riddle.” St. James looked so sly, like he knew something about Kurt that even Kurt himself didn't know. It made him shift uncomfortably as he stood searching mentally for a way to claim the higher ground. “A common stableman, yet you speak as well as I do. And I believe you read as well. Unusual, these traits.”

 

“My mother - ”

 

“Shh. Don't talk.” The Steward held his hand up in a gesture of silencing. “You perform manual labor every day of your life, but your skin is as fair as that of any maiden, your fingers as delicate as a lady's maid, your lips quite as rosy as a girl's.”

 

Kurt said nothing, only waited impatiently for the other man to get to the point.

 

“You look...so innocent. A face like an angel. The voice of one, too, as it happens, you were keeping that well hidden, weren't you?” The sly smirk curling up one side of St. James' mouth was knife-sharp in its cruelty. “And yet. Yet! There you stood watching me toy intimately with two women.”

 

Kurt waited, feeling off balance and as though St. James was about to throw something monumental between them.

 

“One would almost never know that what you  _really_  want is for the Earl of Hudson to fuck you until you can't walk.”

 

When the air left the room, Kurt managed only just to grab the back of the chair he'd formerly eschewed, working to keep himself upright under the shock of the Steward's words. Surely, surely he had not heard that. There was no way that Jesse St. James could possibly know  _that_  about Kurt. Kurt had only just discovered it himself, had not even breathed a single word of it to anyone, had held it close in his trepidation and confusion.

 

“You're so pathetic when he's around, you know.” St. James was as conversational as if he were discussing the weather, or breakfast. Not at all as if he was speaking of something that Kurt suspected could be used to hurt him. “I've been watching all month, every time he's visited. Your gaze follows him like a puppy bumbles after its master. Those strange eyes of yours get as wet and limpid as those of any besotted girl.” He pushed to his feet and prowled over to Kurt, trailing fingers around the younger man's slender neck as he leaned to whisper in his ear. “Pathetic. Dangerous.  _Clueless_. It's going to get you in trouble one day.”

 

When Kurt could speak again, his voice was ragged, like he'd just been screaming.. “I don't know what you mean,” he said again, feeling as weak as a kitten.

 

“It's going to get you in trouble  _today_ , I suppose I should say.” The Steward leaned back on his desk and crossed his arms across his blue velvet doublet. “I need you, Hummel. Well, more to the point, Lord Huntingdon needs you.”

 

“What...what has that to do...with...” Kurt trailed off and swallowed hard. “With what you think is true about me?”

 

“I'm not stupid, you dung booted peasant.” St. James was outright sneering now. “I'm amazed no one else has noticed, quite frankly. You're only slightly less subtle than a rock to the head. However, I do digress.” Carefully, the man inspected his fingernails, clearly feigning a casual demeanor in an effort to break Kurt.

 

It worked. “What. Do. You. Want?” Kurt's voice was a low snarl of slow burning fury. “You want to blackmail me? Why? I'm an stableman, as you pointed out. I have no money or possessions of value. And with information that you can't prove the truth of, what's the point of that?”

 

St. James snorted. “I don't have to prove anything – your word against mine will always,  _always_  lose, Hummel. My family goes back in Huntingdon history for decades, even long before Huntingdon was Pembroke, before William ap Thomas even knew where Raglan Manor was! You're just a foreign stableman of no notable birth whatever.”

 

“I'm English,” Kurt shot back, pride causing him to draw himself up and stand as if iron braced his spine.

 

“You were  _born_  here, but your father's Austrian,” St. James pointed out, smug superiority all through his voice. “You're foreign as far as anyone who counts is concerned.” The awful sly smirk never left his face, his cold blue eyes never thawed as they bored holes into Kurt. “At any rate, returning to the topic at hand, your perpetual erection around that loutish John Finnegan – and what  _do_  you see in him anyway, he's  _such_  a gormless farmboy sort – isn't of blackmailing interest to me. Mentioning that was just to get your attention.” He batted his eyelashes in a parody of flirtation. “I have something far more effective to hold over your head.”

 

“But  _why_?” Kurt's desperation couldn't be contained. “Why are you doing this?”

 

“Because Lord Huntingdon has a very important task that needs doing, he intends to reward me handsomely for getting it done, and God help me, you are my best stab at that.” The Steward didn't even bother to try hiding his contempt now. “Besides that, of course, I don't like you and I do so enjoy tormenting you.”

 

That Jesse St. James disliked him was hardly new information to Kurt, so he bypassed it in favor of the more important point. “Lord Huntingdon?” Despite his best efforts, his voice still faltered as he spoke his master's name. He cursed his weakness before St. James. “I would do anything that he asks. He employs myself and my father, gives us a good home, is a kind man. There is no need to resort to blackmail.”

 

“I suppose not, were it not for the fact that he put  _me_  in charge of this. I have no doubt you'd do anything Lord Huntingdon asked.” St. James spread his arms out in a gesture of false helplessness. “But Lord Huntingdon prefers not to know what precisely I do in his service, when it comes to espionage. He has no idea I'm getting you involved.”

 

Confusion whirled through Kurt's mind. “Espionage?” The word was unfamiliar on his tongue and tasted sour, like old wine.

 

“Espionage. Spying, my dear young lackwit. Though in your case it's actually more sabotage than espionage, really.”

 

“I don't understand.” Kurt had to sit down now, no matter what St. James had done in the damn chair. He threaded his fingers through his hair in his agitation, face twisted in his anxious need to  _understand._  “I don't understand at all how I can help. Please, let me just go back to the stables. I swear to God I will stay out of your way forevermore.”

 

“I can't do that, Hummel.” The apology in the Steward's voice was a mockery. He leveraged himself up away from the desk and moved to clap a heavy hand on Kurt's shoulder. “I need you in all your perverted innocence to do me a very great favor.”

 

Kurt narrowed his eyes in anger. “Favors don't usually include blackmail, St. James.”

 

“True. I suppose if you were a person I liked at all that it  _would_  be a favor.” St. James pretended to mull this over. “No. No, not even then. This is much too important to my future to do it without the blackmail.”

 

The hand on Kurt's shoulder seemed to be bearing him down into the earth for burial. “Get to the point, you bastard,” he hissed, tears of outrage stinging his eyes. “What is it that you  _want_ ?”

 

The Steward released his hold on Kurt, pacing back to his own chair and dropping unceremoniously down into it. “I need you to fuck Edward Anderson, Viscount Dalton. And I need you to get caught.”

 

The number of amazing, unbelievable things that Kurt had heard from Jesse St. James today was causing his head to spin. Surely not...“Come again?”

 

“And again and again and  _again_!” St.James clapped his hands in childish glee. “Nothing wrong with that hearing of yours, Hummel, I'm quite sure. You know exactly what I said.”

 

“Since your hearing is as good as mine,” Kurt snapped back, “then you'll have no trouble hearing me say this – absolutely not. And if that's all you wanted, I'll be leaving.” He leaped to his feet and made for the door, angry tears blurring his vision so that he could only grope for the door handle. The nerve of this disgusting man. How dare he?

 

“Oooh, but it's not,” St. James crooned, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “And no, you won't. This is my very favorite part, you see. This is where we get to the blackmail.”

 

Kurt stopped in his tracks, hand still stretched out towards the door. He took a moment to consider how to respond. What could St. James hold over his head that would be  _worse_  than his puzzling feelings for the Earl of Hudson?

 

“How much,” the Steward began lazily, hoisting his feet up on the desktop, “would you say that you  _loved_  your father, Hummel?”

 

His mind went completely blank in horror at that moment.

 

“Would you love him less if there were...less  _of_  him?”

 

 _This can't be happening._

 

“How efficient do you suppose a stablemaster could be if he were short a few fingers? Or perhaps most of his leg?”

 

Kurt spun on his heel and tore across the room, slapping his palms down on the desk and leaning to get into St. James' evil, amused face. He noticed that the Steward didn't look even remotely threatened, but he had to try to intimidate him all the same. For his father's sake. “You stay  _away_  from my father, St. James.”

 

“Absolutely!” The Steward shrugged and smiled, cheerful as could be. “Do what I want and I'll never touch a hair on your father's head. Well. If there  _were_  hair there, I wouldn't touch it.”

 

“Shut your mouth, shut your filthy, vile mouth.” Kurt felt his jaw clench and he had to speak through his teeth. It hurt, but if he didn't hold back, he'd scream right in St. James' loathsome face. “Don't you  _dare_  even speak of my father. You're not fit to clean his boots.”

 

It shocked him when the other man shot to his feet and leaned across the desk, pressing a dagger Kurt hadn't seen into the soft skin of the young stableman's throat. “I would be very careful of the things I say, were I you, Hummel.” The voice was silky soft and laced with poison. “I can ruin you and I can have your father killed and it would not bother me for one single second of time in my day.”

 

And of course, damn his black soul, Kurt knew that he spoke the truth.

 

He knew that he was defeated, had known it from the moment St. James mentioned his father, really. Knew that he would have to...do...something...with a man he didn't know in order to keep his father safe. It was only that he could not let the odious Steward think that he would simply surrender. He had never, ever been able to go down without a fight, and so he had done what he needed to do to salve his pride.

 

Not that he wouldn't make one last attempt. Perhaps logic would aid him. He tilted his head in the air and looked down his nose at the lowest, most despicable man he'd ever had the misfortune to know. “I'm a virgin.”

 

St. James leaned back upright and sheathed his dagger, a frown of confusion on his face at the apparent  _non sequitur_ . “I'm sorry?”

 

“I'm a virgin,” Kurt repeated. “I've never even kissed anyone.” His cheeks burned as he explained his most private details to his most hated enemy. “I don't think I can do what you want. I wouldn't know...”

 

“Fine.” St. James shrugged. “Then you let him fuck you. Actually, that's even better...either way, the important thing is that you get caught.”

 

That was not the answer Kurt wanted. “I don't even know this man!” He wanted to kill St. James with his bare hands. Forcing him to allow a perfect stranger to handle his body - what could possibly be so important about this Viscount that they wanted him ruined? In  _this_  way? Why did it have to be like this? “Why is he so important? Why are you so bent on destroying him? Why use me?”

 

“You don't need to know anything about Anderson except that Lord Huntingdon needs him utterly ruined,” the Steward snapped. “You said you'd do anything for Lord Huntingdon, well, here's your chance. As to why you – well, for one thing, as I've already mentioned, I don't like you.” He came around the desk to stand behind Kurt and whisper into his ear. “You find this embarrassing. It hurts you. It  _demeans_  you.” Stepping back only a pace, he brushed his hand across Kurt's buttocks, causing the stableman to close his eyes and lower his head. “Your humiliation, my dear young Hummel, is the  _only_  thing about you I like.”

 

Kurt thought his heart would stop under the force of that poisonous hatred.

 

“Must I...must I...” He fought to get the words past the lump in his throat. “Can we not just be caught kissing? Please, surely that's enough. Please don't make me...”

 

“Kissing's not enough.” St. James had returned to his desk and was looking through a stack of parchment and books. “Caught balls deep in your arse, that implicates him as a deviant and a pervert beyond any reasonable doubt.”

 

Kurt felt his mouth and throat go dry. Not only at the sudden clarification of what male on male sex would entail – is  _that_  how it worked? - but at the hint that it was a very bad thing, just as he'd suspected. “Why...is it a bad thing for two men to lie together?”

 

The Steward looked up, amused at Kurt's naivete. “The Church condemns it as a sin and society condemns it as a crime against masculinity. Any nobleman caught at it is discredited instantly and for the rest of his life. It's a stain on not only his reputation, but that of his family and anyone associated with him. That's the best outcome, at least.” His eyes were positively twinkling. “Sometimes they're even  _killed_ .”

 

 _Dear God, but he is foul._ “And me...what happens to me when I am caught?” Kurt swallowed, and swallowed again, but the lump wouldn't vanish. “We'll be caught – I'll be ruined.”

 

“Not that anyone much cares about a stableman, but you're not wrong. You'll need to arrange to be caught by Lord Huntingdon's men, so he'll find out about it, and you certainly won't be welcome back here after  _that_!” A triumphant smile slipped across St. James' face. “I'll never have to look at your sneering, unjustifiably superior face ever again.”

 

He was horrified. “What becomes of me then?”

 

“I really don't care. You'll have your life and enough money to go wherever you can manage after that.” St. James flapped his hand dismissively. “And of course, your father will still be alive and employed, which I gather is the most important thing to you.”

 

“But I'll never see him again, will I?” Tears stung his eyes as he tried to wrap his mind around it. “My father.”

 

“Either way, you'll never see him again,” The Steward was brutal and unyielding. “Do things my way and at least he'll be alive at the end of it.” He seemed to find whatever he'd been hunting for on his desk, a sheet of parchment that he thrust in Kurt's direction. “You need to report to Mistress Corcoran tomorrow afternoon for music lessons, but before that you need to see the seamstress to have a wardrobe planned.”

 

“You're so sure I'm doing this.” Kurt's voice was pitched low and soft, shot through with pain and resignation.

 

“Of course I am.” St. James shook the paper impatiently until Kurt took it and stared at it in blank incomprehension. “It's your schedule for the next two months. We must prepare you, and we have precious little time in which to do it.”

 

“Prepare me?” Suddenly, Kurt's mind flashed back to what the Steward had said only moments ago. He hadn't quite understood it then, and as he reflected on it now, it still made no sense whatsoever. “Wait, music lessons?”

 

St. James heaved an irritated sigh. “Yes, Hummel. Music lessons. You didn't think we were going to send you to seduce a Viscount in the guise of a filthy horseman, did you?”

 

He blinked. “I did not know there were other options. What has music to do with this?”

 

“Everything,” St. James replied, rolling his eyes as if he thought Kurt were the stupidest man alive – which, more than likely, he did actually think that, Kurt realized. The man went on, voice thick with condescension. “You can sing. Quite well, actually, though it pains me to admit it. And the Earl of Crawford is suddenly in need of someone to entertain his daughters and tutor them in singing.”

 

“I don't know anything about teaching anyone to sing...” Kurt felt dazed, muzzy, more confused than he knew how to cope with.

 

Another sigh. “Hence the lessons. Honestly, are you as stupid as the horses you tend?” St. James didn't wait for an answer. “You had better not be, because you need to learn as much as you can before we send you off to Crawford. I hope your father's life is an extremely powerful motivator for you to study hard. You can't put one foot out of place, Hummel, or I will have him killed and you get to live with the knowledge that it's your own damned fault.”

 

Kurt pressed his lips together and breathed hard through his nose, trying to calm down until he felt able to speak again. “And why Crawford? I thought it was this Dalton fellow you wanted me to...to...”

 

St. James rolled his eyes at Kurt's inability to discuss sex. “Crawford and Dalton are neighboring estates,” he explained. “I expect the Viscount to be over at Crawford quite frequently, for reasons I am not going to disclose to you. Therefore, you'll have plenty of opportunities to entice him into your bed.”

 

It truly felt like Kurt was going to be violently ill. His hands twitched with the urge to settle themselves around St. James' throat and begin squeezing. What exactly had he done to deserve this? He thought he'd been a good son, a hard worker, a generally kind person – was he being punished for what St. James had told him was a perversion of nature? Was that even his own fault, though? Kurt's head began to ache with the mixture of fear, outrage, and confusion that was tangling up his mind. How had it come that St. James, evil and manipulative, was in a position of power while he, a decent man, was going to be forced to let a perfect stranger use his body in order to preserve the life of his father, the very best and kindest man he knew?

 

And all in the service of a man that Kurt genuinely admired and wished he could talk to about Jesse St. James' depredations. Surely if William Herbert knew of this, he would not permit St. James to treat Kurt this way. The Earl of Huntingdon had always been kind to the Hummels, and if the Earl of Hudson was to be believed, he frequently spoke highly of them.

 

But in order to tell Lord Huntingdon of this, he would have to reveal his problematic attraction to Hudson. And if what St. James had said was true, then Huntingdon could very well turn his back on him, leaving Kurt in no better a position than when he started. At which point St. James might kill his father anyway, out of spite.

 

He did not, most emphatically did not want to do this.

 

Mind clouded with fear, he could see no way out of it.

 

Despair settled on his shoulders and felt as though it could press him into the ground. He was going to destroy his life and the life of a man that, for all he knew, deserved it no more than he felt he himself did.

 

But his father would live.

 

Nothing was more important than that.

 

Kurt cleared his throat. “Fine. Tell me who I am going to become, and what else there is I will need to do.”

 

The satisfaction on St. James' face was unbearable as he gestured for Kurt to take a seat. “Your name,” he began, leaning back in his chair again, “will be Florian Renner...”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Blaine calls on the Earl of Crawford for an important discussion, his life continues to grow exponentially more complicated than he had ever anticipated.

“Ouch! Damn it!”

 

Amelia didn't even lift an eyebrow at Blaine's pained exclamation, continuing on with stringing holly berries as if the young Viscount hadn't quite rudely just let out a curse word in front of a lady.

 

“'Melia, I'm hurt.” Blaine was holding up his finger and looking distinctly like a very sad puppy when his friend finally deigned to look at him. “There's bleeding. It may be fatal.”

 

“It's not fatal, you idiot, if it were I'd be dead a thousand times over from all of those handkerchiefs I used to embroider for you.” With a fond smile to take the sting out of her words, she leaned over and tossed her own cloth square into his lap. “Clean yourself up and get back to work.”

 

“You are a hard taskmaster, Amelia.” Blaine pouted for a moment more before realizing it wasn't garnering any sympathy from his friend.

 

She smiled as she picked her threaded needle and bowl of berries back up. “I have to be. It's December and I've a lot of Crawford Keep to decorate for the holidays, Blaine. With Jane and Mary married and gone, I'm in charge of it now.” She gestured at him with her needle. “You're early for your meeting with my father and you have two perfectly good free hands. I'm not about to let a prime opportunity pass.” As she slipped berries over her needle in a well practiced motion, the bright red spheres stacked up on the string at an alarming pace. “Back to work, Viscount Dalton.”

 

“You're heartless, Amelia. Absolutely heartless. Did it ever occur to you that I came early to spend time with you?” Blaine held his own needle up in front of his face, squinting his eyes and sticking his tongue out a little as he jabbed gingerly at the berry in his other hand. 

 

Amelia smiled, tossing her blonde curls over her shoulder before pointing out sweetly, “But we  _ are _ spending time together, Blaine.” She waved her hand to encompass the sitting room they were occupying, sprawled out on the fine carpet as if they were children instead of allegedly respectable adults, heedless of their fine clothing and the creases they were causing. “It's no different than any time we spend singing.”

 

“Yes it is,” he grumbled, dropping the berry he was holding into the deep pile of the fine Persian carpet and feeling his face blanch. Amelia would kill him – no, her _mother_ would kill him if he didn't find that berry before someone crushed it into the carpet and left an indelible stain. “Singing has a much lower chance of ending in bodily harm.”

 

She bit her lip before she could lose control and giggle right into his face. That would not be nice. “If you'd just be slow and careful and not try to race me to see who can string the most holly berries, this too would have a low incidence of bodily harm, Blaine.” Her brocaded skirts rustled in their puddled state on the floor as she shifted position. Her foot was all pins and needles from sitting on it.

 

Blaine located the wayward red orb and slipped it carefully onto his needle before it could escape again. “Why did I agree to this?”

 

“Because you love me,” Amelia replied promptly, her hands never stilling in their task. “And also because I promised not to tell Mama that you actually stuck your fingers into the bowl of march pane in the kitchen and filched an awful lot of it. That's supposed to be for the Christmas cakes, Blaine.”

 

“Thank you for stirring it back up so that no one could tell I did that.” Blaine grinned and leaned over to place a loud, smacking kiss on Amelia's cheek. “I suppose it's fair enough then that I help you until your father comes to find me.”

 

“I certainly think so,” she replied with mock primness, tossing another berry at him and forcing him to put his needle and thread down to hunt frantically for it in the rug. “Why are you meeting Papa, anyway?”

 

Blaine gently combed his fingers through the wool, so intent on his search that his tone was absent and distracted. “He didn't tell me. I can imagine, of course.”

 

“Of course.” They didn't need to elaborate. Neither of them had forgotten the night of Amelia's birthday ball. An awkward silence fell between them. Amelia put her hand into her bowl of berries and drew it in a circle, feeling the fruit slip between her fingers and allowing the sensation to calm her sudden anxiety. She took a deep breath. “So Papa says we may have a new singing teacher after the holidays. That's when he's going to start looking.”

 

“That's excellent. Have you been singing anyway?” Blaine looked up from peering at the carpet, his eyes bright not only with good cheer, but his own anxiety. “We will have to make time again to go through our songbook.”

 

“Yes,” Amelia agreed, reaching over and plucking the lost berry from the wool pile by Blaine's knee, smiling innocently at him before slipping it onto her string. He glared in false outrage before harrumphing and returning to his bowl and string. She blew a kiss before continuing. “You could bring your lute. Or I could go to Dalton.”

 

“You're always welcome.” Blaine lifted his head at the sound of bootsteps in the corridor. “Oh, dear, it sounds like you're about to lose my help, Amelia. I'm so deeply disappointed.” 

 

She lifted up his string and raised an eyebrow at the pitifully small number of berries he'd managed to get on it. “It's probably just as well. You spent more time complaining than stringing. I'll see if Lizzie wants to help me.”

 

“I'm sure she will, if you can pry her away from her mirror.” Blaine's tone was dry as he got to his feet. He'd never had much use for any of Amelia's sisters, who lacked her sweetness and good sense. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her forehead just before the Earl of Crawford, appeared in the doorway to the sitting room. “Come visit any time you like. I'm sure Aunt Alice would love to see you too.”

 

“I've been meaning to visit her anyway.” Amelia clenched one hand to her green and gold skirts and – was it Blaine's imagination or did a faintly troubled look slip across her face? Before he could be sure, it was gone, replaced by her usual sunny smile. “And to thank her for the sewing basket. It was lovely.”

 

“Amelia, are you - ”

 

“Papa's here.” She raised her hands for him to pull her up to her feet so that she could run lightly to the doorway. “Hello, Papa!”

 

James Freville smiled at his third daughter and her friend, admiring the pretty picture they made in the sitting room. “Hello, angel. Anderson. How are the holiday decorations coming along?”

 

“Quite nicely, thank you. I've had the châtelaine pull out all the candles she will spare, I've found all of our gold ribbons, there's lots of mistletoe in the stores, and Blaine was just helping me with stringing holly.” Amelia glanced back over her shoulder, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “Well. He was here, and he had a needle and thread and a bowl of berries, at least.”

 

“You wound me, Amelia. Quite literally.” Blaine held up the finger he'd speared with the needle and affected an affronted expression. “I bled for your holiday decorating.”

 

“And it is much appreciated.” She leaned up to kiss her father's cheek, pulling back to wave her hand in dismissal. “You may take him away now, Papa. I've no further use for him.”

 

“I'm sure he's grateful.” The blue eyes that the Earl had passed down to each of his daughters twinkled in amusement as he turned to Blaine. “Let's make your escape while we still can, shall we, Anderson?”

 

“Posthaste, sir.” With a last slightly worried smile at his friend as she bid them farewell, Blaine set off down the corridor with the Earl of Crawford, having to walk with some speed to match the older man's longer legged strides. “As much as I do enjoy spending time with Amelia, that was something akin to torture.”

 

“Was it?” The Earl smiled at Blaine's jest. “That would be a novel new method of getting information out of captives. Just put them in a room with Amelia giving a sewing lesson. It has merit.” He opened the door to the room that he used for private discussions, ushering Blaine in and following behind after making sure it was tightly shut. “Have a seat. Wine?” 

 

“Please.” Blaine sat in one of the large leather chairs, gratefully accepting the cup offered to him by the Earl. “As much as I actually do enjoy Amelia's company, I feel secure in assuming that it wasn't your purpose in summoning me here.”

 

“I don't know, young man. It is getting rather late on in the season and Amelia does need the help...” At Blaine's smirk, Crawford relented. “All right, you're right.” He took a seat in the other leather chair, reclining back and gazing at Blaine with what looked to be assessment in his eyes. “You're twenty now, am I correct?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And you've no intentions of asking for my daughter's hand in marriage?” He threw his head back and roared with laughter at the mixture of horror and awkward confusion on Blaine's face. “God's bones, boy, you've known each other since childhood, it's not an out of the ordinary question.”

 

Blaine drained his wine cup and held it out for more. “With all due respect to your lovely daughter, sir, I'm not sure which of us would kill the other first.”

 

“Amelia would,” the Earl advised, passing the jug of wine over. “I remember you're quite a fighter, Anderson, but my daughter fights dirty. Gets it from her mother.”

 

“Excellent to know...” Blaine's voice was still faint. He'd worried for a split second that Crawford was actually going to start making demands he had – really quite literally - no desire to fill. Inasmuch as he had known the Earl since he was a small boy, he didn't really know him that _well_. As far as he knew, it had been entirely possible that Freville hadn't been joking and really did want to know Blaine's intentions.

 

So he felt it was forgivable, even understandable, that he was still a bit shaken.

 

The Earl smiled, a trifle tightly. “No, you can relax and revel in your bachelor status, Anderson. I actually asked you to come discuss a more serious matter. I'd meant to do so at the ball, but...” He inclined his head and shrugged slightly. “Well, I thought that Amelia might not appreciate my appropriation of all of the eligible young nobles while she was trying to dance with all of them.”

 

“I would consider that to be an accurate assessment,” Blaine replied simply, with a smile of his own, and then lapsed into silence, waiting for the Earl to get to the point. He wasn't an idiot, he knew perfectly well that a Lancastrian reclamation of the English throne was their topic of discussion. He simply wanted to put off his inevitable agreement to go to war for as long as he could.

 

He'd had just over three months to think about it, and he was as conflicted as he had been when David had first broached the topic. Yes, he supported the Lancastrian claim to the throne. No, he didn't want to go to war and be in charge of getting himself and others killed.

 

Therefore, he was not going to be the one starting this conversation.

 

Crawford kept his gaze steady on Blaine, templing his fingers and tapping them together slowly and rhythmically. “How much do you know of the...conflicts...between York and Lancaster, Edward?”

 

The use of his proper name startled Blaine – Alice was usually the only person who called him that. For the first time since attaining his majority, he was being addressed as an adult by someone other than family. It drove home the gravity of the situation while at the same time frightening him quite nearly to death.

 

At the sound of a discreetly cleared throat, he realized that the Earl was frowning, waiting for a response. “Ah, well,” Blaine's tongue tripped over the words as he tried to get out a coherent thought. “I know that it has been heavily contested since before I was born – that it began with Henry of Bolingbroke.”

 

“Yes.” Crawford seemed pleased that he knew that much. “Henry stepped in to rule England when it became clear that his cousin Richard was...how shall I put this.” He gazed at the ceiling, tapping his chin with his index finger. “Richard was becoming increasingly unfit to rule, and so Henry stepped in to save England from ruin.”

 

“And all was well until the reign of Henry VI,” Blaine ventured, recalling his history reading and lessons from his aunt and tutors. “Henry fell ill, and the Earl of Warwick took advantage of his frailty to back the claim of the Duke of York.”

 

Crawford's pleasure with Blaine's knowledge was even more evident now in his delighted nodding. “Good. You know your history. Then you know now that what has been done by the Lancastrian faction has always been done in England's best interests, and they have been ever thwarted by the self-aggrandizing delusional bastards of York.”

 

Blaine opened and shut his mouth a few times in surprise, having never heard it put quite so baldly. Alice was rather more diplomatic in her disdain for the York claimants. “I...yes. That would be a way to put it.”

 

Crawford slapped his knee, letting out a bark of laughter. “So polite and diplomatic you are. Never mind the coarse grumblings of an old warhorse, Anderson. Enough with the history lesson, as well. Let's get down to our true business: your cousin, Henry Tudor.”

 

“Distant cousin,” Blaine countered, slightly uncomfortable. “Very distant. I've never met him, he's a bit older than I.”

 

“Still. The connection is there. Had you been made aware that he has pledged to marry Elizabeth of York? And that this pledge has gathered him nearly enough support to retake the Crown?”

 

Blaine felt his eyes go wide in shock. “No. I'd...I'd been informed that there would be an attempt to take the throne, but I hadn't been made aware of who had been put forth.”

 

“It's not the strongest claim, I'll grant,” Crawford grumbled. “But he's the most senior of all that are eligible. Your name came up, of course,” the Earl slipped this in as if it were an afterthought, but his eyes narrowed as he watched to gauge Blaine's reaction.

 

Which was to choke on his wine and turn it into a coughing fit that caused his face to burn as red as his doublet and left him speechless for several moments. His face remained red after he had regained his composure – out of embarrassment for reacting in such a juvenile manner. “Forgive me.”

 

“Not at all.” The Earl shook his head. “That would have come as a shock to anyone who wasn't groomed for it from an early age. You've always been a bit of a homebody, haven't you, Anderson? You run that estate of yours with the skill of a man twice your age.”

 

Blaine stared down into his cup at the way the sunlight played on the surface of the wine. “My father left me a great responsibility, and my aunt deserves a good, secure home for all that she has put up with from having to raise a young man on her own.”  _ And since I have no relationship or interest in marriage,  _ he thought wryly,  _ I've had a bit of extra time to put into figuring out what I'm doing. _

 

“Which is an excellent attitude in one so young,” praised Crawford, a fatherly smile on his face. “And it is to be commended. But your father left you the title of Viscount Dalton, and Anderson, that means you have an even greater responsibility – to the throne of England and supporting those with her best interests in mind.”

 

“Of course, of course,” Blaine replied hurriedly. “I understand that.”

 

“Good.” The Earl paused to collect his thoughts and pour another cup of wine. “You're popular amongst your peers. Always have been – when you're not with Amelia at the parties, you're surrounded by a group of men your age and even some who are older, all of whom hang on your every word.”

 

“Am I?” Blaine thought about this. It wasn't something he'd really noticed. He just liked being social and to be liked well enough. And, he rather thought some of those young men were trying to befriend him in order to get him to give a good word to Amelia on their behalf. He pitied those men – none of them were remotely good enough for her.

 

“You are. You're also clearly well read and you know your history. Last, and certainly not at all least – there's that young David Hardwick you have as your Marshal. He's as well liked as you amongst _his_ peers, if what I hear from my armsmen is accurate. And his father was a good, respected military man.”

 

“Yes. He was.” Blaine fought to retain a neutral tone. Would the man get to the _point_ already?

 

“You're exactly what we need, Anderson.” Crawford leaned forward in his chair, his wine cup dangling from his fingers. “Henry's got the backing of the major lords – including myself, I'm sure you've guessed – but we need the martial support of younger nobles such as yourself. We need you to rally your peers, Edward.”

 

 _ Oh, God, please save us all, _ Blaine prayed frantically. It was everything he knew he was suited for, and nothing that he had ever wanted. He had only ever desired to live in peace and quiet...

 

Crawford's assessing gaze never wavered. “Margaret Beaufort has already interceded with Henry to guarantee the conferring of an earldom upon you in the event of his success. That would assist you considerably in your support of your aunt.”

 

Blaine dropped his eyes back to the cup in his hand. And there it was, right there. Blaine was never going to be able to resist any offer that involved giving Alice the life she deserved. Even if it possibly came at the expense of his own life – though for reasons both selfish and non, he hoped not, quite desperately. He didn't want to leave Alice alone, wasn't sure of the support she could expect if he wasn't around and...well. Simply enough, Blaine did not want to die. Not yet.

 

He looked up with what he hoped was a steady gaze of his own, locking eyes with Crawford. “I will not coerce anyone into battle to lose their life needlessly. If I agree to this, I need to know that those of you in charge of it all have a solid plan and truly believe that we have a very strong chance of actually winning.” Blaine took a deep breath. “I want to honor my father's memory by fighting for the cause he died defending – and I want to succeed.”

 

The Earl stared at him for a moment more before nodding and smiling. “We were wise in our choice to approach you, Anderson.” Leaning back, he placed his cup on the table at his side and touched his fingers together again. “Henry is quite sure of his chances  _ if _ we assemble the right army and the right leaders and strike at the right time. It needs to be done when Richard least suspects it coming.”

 

Understandable. “That seems logical,” Blaine replied slowly, considering this. “Is there a time frame in mind?”

 

“Yes. Sometime in the coming year. Not immediately – we still need to gather the troops, organize them, and we don't want to do it now. Not while Richard is still suspicious of Henry's pledge to Elizabeth, not while we are...still unsure of certain factors.”

 

“Sir?” Blaine frowned. Uncertainty was not what he needed at all. Yet Crawford seemed reluctant to speak of it. Blaine decided to see just how important he was deemed to be. “I cannot in good conscience recommend that anyone offer their life for the sake of a plan that suffers uncertainty.” He took a deep breath, surprised that he was even about to utter his next words. “I would need to know what these factors are. If I am to play this role for you all, I must be made aware of what is happening. It would be my duty as the _de facto_ head of these lesser noble ranks.”

 

Crawford appeared both impressed and resigned at his temerity. “That is absolutely fair of you to say, Anderson. Would that I were at liberty to disclose the full story.”

 

Blaine refused to back down. “I have been the recipient of a good deal of astonishing news today about myself, my family, and my country. I do not feel it is fair to be left in the dark any longer, having been asked to take on this large responsibility.” He set aside his own wine cup and got to his feet. “When you are ready to fully include me, please send a messenger and I will come to you.” He inclined his head in farewell and strode towards the door, trembling slightly at his daring towards the older, higher ranking noble.

 

“Edward.” When Blaine turned, the Earl was also on his feet, a look of conflict on his face. “You're entirely correct. I understand your reluctance and I commend your concern for your peers.” He spread his hands out helplessly. “At this moment, my hands are tied. I can tell you only that there is a very important contingent of possible allies who are weighing both sides of this conflict and still have not decided whether or not to come over to the Lancastrians.”

 

Blaine nodded. “I understand, sir. I simply do not feel that I have enough information at this time to make the decision to accept the duty you have asked me to consider. My loyalty is ever to Lancaster,” he hastened to explain, “But that loyalty must go both ways, and I must include as part of that my loyalty to my friends, my peers, and the men that support them.”

 

“Again, Edward, you only confirm my good opinion of your sense and duty, and prove yourself to be a remarkably intelligent young man.” Crawford heaved a sigh. “I fully understand your need to know more before you can commit yourself. It is a fair thing.” For a moment, the Earl glanced at the floor before looking up to meet Blaine's eyes. “I will do what I can, as quickly as possible. Do I at least have your pledge that you are prepared to support the cause in this way, should you receive the information you require?”

 

The Viscount considered this soberly before nodding again. “I feel that I can agree to that. When I am comfortable with the knowledge of what you wish us to be involved in, I will agree to speak to the others.”

 

“Excellent.” Crawford was visibly relieved, and Blaine found himself consumed by wonder at the thought of being so important. The Earl had not told him to take his integrity and begone, nor had he indicated at all that they had another person in mind to take up the mantle of rallying the lesser nobles. He actually was that important.

 

It was almost intoxicating.

 

“I thank you for coming to see me and for hearing me out, Edward.” The Earl was by his side now, opening the chamber door so that they could depart. “It means a great deal to know that we have intelligent men of integrity such as yourself to support the Lancastrian cause. Why, I quite wish that you had a twin brother.”

 

“Never say that where Aunt Alice can hear you,” Blaine laughed. “She'd have your head removed in an instant. She swears that only good luck and the love of God have kept her from sprouting an entire head of white hair after raising me.”

 

“Alice exaggerates.” Crawford was chuckling. “I know that we haven't been that close, Edward, but if I thought at all that you were any kind of hellion growing up, my Amelia wouldn't have been allowed to be within spitting distance of you, let alone close friends.” He shook his head, a bit sadly. “Honestly, I wish you had a twin if for no other reason than to marry Amelia off to him and know that she was in good hands.”

 

“Still talking about marrying Amelia off?” Blaine smiled. “One would almost think you were seriously searching for suitors.”

 

The Earl looked over at him, surprised. “She didn't tell you?”

 

A chill of foreboding seized around his heart. “Tell me what?”

 

“We _are_ seeking a husband for Amelia. I want her safely married and out of the way before this conflict begins.”

 

Blaine abruptly understood both Amelia's need to speak to Alice and the troubled look he now knew he had not in fact imagined. “I see.” He fought to keep the anger out of his voice. “Lord Crawford, would you excuse me to go find Amelia? I might as well try to give her an actual hand with the decorating now that you and I have spoken.”

 

“Absolutely, Edward. Thank you again for coming here.” Crawford reached over and shook Blaine's hand while grasping his arm. “I will have answers for you as soon as I possibly can get them.”

 

“Thank you.” Blaine set back off down the hallway to find the sitting room he'd left Amelia in, gambling that she would have decided to make sure the job was done right by herself rather than involving a reluctant Lizzie. And sure enough, there she still was, now perched in a chair with her skirts cascading around her, looking like a lovely, fragile portrait in the lamplight. 

 

She looked up when she heard him enter the room, dropping her needle into the bowl on her lap. “Blaine!”

 

“Amelia.” He closed the door behind himself and strode quickly to her side and dropped to his knees, taking her hands in his. “Why? You're my dearest friend. Why didn't you tell me?”

 

She froze, sky blue eyes wide and anxious. “Blaine...”

 

“Married! And before the next year is out!” He shook his head. “You didn't _tell_ me. You didn't say anything!”

 

“Blaine - ” She tried again to speak, only to be cut off when Blaine shoved up to his feet and began pacing the room, hands clenched into his hair. 

 

“I can't believe this.” He felt overwhelmed with all of the information that had been thrust upon him today. “I think it may be the final straw. I think I may literally go mad now.”

 

“Blaine!” Amelia had leaped to her feet, heedless of the bowl in her lap. Red berries spilled everywhere, scattering across the carpet and disappearing into the pile. Her eyes were brimful of tears that threatened to spill at any moment. “Will you _please_ stop it!”

 

The anger in her voice stopped him cold. Amelia never got angry. Amelia also had never in her life slapped him across the face, so it came as quite the surprise when she stalked across the room and did precisely that. He pressed a hand to his blazing cheek, staring at her in shock. “Amelia!”

 

“No. Say nothing.” Her voice trembling in her fury. Fury that seemed almost excessive to the situation. “Do not speak. You don't get to protest this, Blaine. You refuse to marry me.”

 

Bewilderment coursed through him. “You don't  _ want _ to marry me - ”

 

“I don't want to marry _anyone_!” The words spiraled up into a crescendo, peaking in a shriek that made Blaine dizzy – and very glad he'd closed the door. “I want to stay home! If it were not for this war I might be able to talk Papa out of it – he's got Jane and Mary married off, Lizzie and Abigail are almost of an age – if this damnable war had never come up, I could have avoided it and I would be able to stay home. But Papa needs political support and...and...” She began to sniffle in a vain attempt to hold back her tears. It failed to work. “I am a commodity. I thought he loved me.”

 

“He does love you, 'Melia.” Blaine tried to gather her into his arms to comfort her, but she was having none of it. With a kick to his shin – thankfully blunted by the layers of her skirts – she wrestled free, dropping to the floor and furiously combing the pile to look for spilled berries. Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks, which had gone pink in her rage.

 

“I know we don't love each other in that way, and I've never wanted to marry you, Blaine.” She dropped a handful of retrieved berries into her bowl. “But if you married me, at least we know each other and I could be close to home. You should have thought of this.”

 

“I should have?” All he could do was stand there, confused. Where had this come from? “I didn't even know you didn't want to get married to anyone. I thought it was just me. You always said you didn't want to marry me. And you know why I won't marry you.” A frown knitted his eyebrows together, and he could feel a headache beginning to throb at the base of his skull. “What is this actually about, Amelia?”

 

She looked back over her shoulder at him, sadness all over her face. “I'm scared, Blaine.”

 

“'Melia...”

 

“I'm scared of this war, and of Papa dying, and you dying, and what if he marries me off to someone who also dies? I won't be able to come home. It's too much, Blaine, too much is changing.” Dropping more berries into the bowl, she buried her face in her palms and sobbed as if her heart were breaking. It went through Blaine's own heart like a swordthrust. “I don't want it. I don't want any of it.”

 

Blaine silently cursed Lord Crawford for his apparent need to overwhelm everyone with upsetting news. “Amelia.” He walked carefully over to her, keeping an eye out for any stray berries. Crouching beside his friend, he tried again to embrace her. This time she let him. “Amelia, it's going to be all right. Your father does love you. He's trying to keep you safe.”

 

“By sending me away?”

 

“If he sends you away, you can't be used against him,” Blaine told her honestly. He suspected that was at least part of the Earl's reasoning. Remembering David's words about the reason Crawford married off his daughters, he elected to leave out the possibility that money was involved.

 

“That is entirely stupid.” Amelia was scathing. “Then I can be used against my husband.”

 

Well. She was not wrong. “He would send you somewhere well fortified,” he tried.

 

“Crawford Keep is well fortified!”

 

He rubbed his hand over his face. “I don't know what you want me to say, Amelia. You're upset. I understand. But you do not truly wish to marry me.” Poking through the carpet, he located a few berries, dumping them into the blue stone bowl. “Perhaps you should talk to your father. Tell him you're frightened. He loves you, he will at least hear you out.”

 

“At least.” Amelia hiccupped. “I don't want to get married, Blaine.”

 

“I know, pretty. I know.” He tipped another handful of berries into the bowl. “Come. Why don't we finish picking these up, and then I'll help you with stringing a bit longer before I start off for home. Does that sound all right?”

 

She smiled with gratitude through her drying tears, wiping at her cheeks. “That's lovely of you. You will be more careful this time, won't you, Blaine?”

 

“Yes, 'Melia,” he sighed with a touch of fond exasperation. But not too much – he was just happy to see her stop crying. He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling when she looked up at him. “It truly will be all right. You'll see. I'm sorry I made you cry.”

 

“It's gotten to be a habit of yours,” she responded wryly, sweeping her fingers in the rug. “I would very much appreciate it if you did not do it again.”

 

“I pledge to you that I shall try.” He left unspoken a second promise – that if Lord Crawford heeded Amelia's wish and ended the search for a husband, that he would find a way to keep Amelia safe himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks to the lovely MotherGoddamn for her beta reading and handholding and cheerleading. She's a real peach.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt begins his journey to a new life as Florian Renner with a carriage ride to Oxford, during which he learns that Jesse St. James possesses even more murky and distasteful depths than he had previously displayed.

When Kurt Hummel departed Raglan Castle to become Florian Renner, he didn't go alone. He had company for the day's journey to Oxford.

 

Whether he liked it or not.

 

"Are you still not speaking to me?" Jesse St. James couldn't keep the amused satisfaction out of his drawling words.

 

Kurt kept his head turned towards the carriage window, where a light snow was falling, but slanted a glare at the Steward from the corner of his eye. "Go to hell."

 

"Oh, come now, Hummel! It's not my fault..." He began to snigger. "Not my fault you're so...so...so damnably... _punctual_." St. James was all but doubled over with laughter on his carriage seat, oblivious to Kurt's palpable fury.

 

Kurt, who had been treated that morning to a glimpse of a half-naked Miss Lopez bobbing merrily up and down atop St. James' lap, did not find the situation nearly as amusing. For the last two and a half months he would arrive at the man's chambers at the appointed time, only to open the door on St. James with one or both of his preferred chambermaids, in a position Kurt would call "compromising" and St. James called merely "ambitious."

 

And yes. He was actually knocking first. He was even waiting for permission to enter the room. St. James was clearly doing it on purpose.

 

"You are vile," Kurt gritted out.

 

"And you are a prude," St. James countered, sitting back up. "How exactly do you plan to accomplish this mission - and may I remind you that your father's life does hinge on your success - if you turn that fascinating shade of scarlet every time you so much as glimpse a naked human figure?"

 

"Really, you are welcome to close your mouth and _keep_ it shut at any time, St. James."

 

“I do think it's a fair question, Hummel.” He spread his hands out as if asking a sincere question – but the mocking smile curling his lips gave away his contempt. “I'm sure your father would think it a fair one, if he knew, since it's his life...”

 

Kurt closed his eyes and breathed steadily, attempting to not rise to the bait. “I continue to ask you to leave my father out of this.”

 

“Which reveals your very fundamental misunderstanding of how it is, precisely, that blackmail works.” St. James was bored with this. If Kurt was tired of catching Jesse _in_ _flagrante_ _delicto_ , then Jesse was equally tired of hearing Kurt whine about the unfairness of his situation. Honestly, didn't he understand how lucky he was? An entirely new wardrobe – and quite an eye-catching one, too, Jesse admitted as he admired the dove gray velvet doublet with pale green silk accenting that Hummel was currently wearing – at no cost to him. An actual musical education, however harried and abrupt, for that unfairly angelic voice. An employment opportunity that far outstripped anything a mere stableman should rightfully expect.

 

But when he pointed all of this out to Kurt, all he got back in response was, “And all I have to do is give my virginity to a man I do not know, thereby ruining both of our lives, all while my own father's life hangs in the balance. Good God, whyever _would_ I complain about such a marvelous opportunity?”

 

Jesse had not liked Kurt Hummel before, and now, having endured his razor-sharp tongue and ingratitude in close proximity for two months, he positively _loathed_ him.

 

Had he asked the younger man, he would have been categorically assured that the feeling was mutual.

 

Kurt shifted in his seat, running a hand absently over his fine woolen hose and taking pleasure in the softness. He'd only ever worn breeches and plain cotton stockings. Nothing had ever fit him as closely as his new clothing, nothing had ever felt so soft against his skin. When the finally completed wardrobe was delivered in the wee hours of morning by the exhausted seamstress, he hadn't been able to resist clothing himself immediately, managing the shirt, hose and doublet with only minor fumbles.

 

As he'd looked into the mirror at Raglan Castle that morning and found...not himself, but a young lord, staring coolly back at him, he'd nearly let out a shout. Only recognizing his own odd green-blue eyes in the haughty face kept him silent, only spotting his slightly upturned snub nose made him realize that it was indeed himself in that reflection. When he bit his lip and the reflection bit its own lip as well, he calmed down entirely and lost himself in admiring the image he saw.

 

He'd never really known what he looked like. Hadn't known that when he wasn't covered in sweat and grime from working that his skin really was as fair and clear as St. James had sneeringly pointed out. Had not ever once realized that depending on what he was wearing, his eyes shifted from green to gray to blue and innumerable shades in between. And his hair – chestnut streaked with gold by the sun, cropped short in the back but left to tumble over his brow up front – why had no one ever explained to him before that his hair could look like that?

 

Because he'd never mattered before, he remembered with a sinking stomach, and he didn't exactly matter now. All that actually mattered was what he could do. _He_ didn't matter. His heart and soul and the essence of who _Kurt_ _Hummel_ actually was didn't matter at all.

 

It made him ill to think about it.

 

A cough from St. James brought him back to the present, and he leveled what he hoped was an ice cold stare on the Steward. “Since we're stuck in this carriage until this evening, you might as well be of some use to me.” Kurt kept his voice calm and even, but he couldn't help the upward tilt of his nose or the haughty quirk of his eyebrow. St. James noticed both of these things and allowed a responding sneer to cross his own face.

 

“Careful, Hummel. Don't think you actually are becoming something you're not. Once this is over, you go back to being the dirt-grubbing horse-lover that you were before. The only difference is that you get to do it as far away from me as possible. Thank God.”

 

Kurt rolled his eyes. “St. James, do you or do you not want this assignment you've gone to considerable trouble and expense to prepare me for to go well?” The Steward opened his mouth, but Kurt didn't wait for him to speak. “I have learned how to read music, how to wear a doublet and hose, how to speak even more above my station than I already had known to do, how to respond to a new name and how to properly breathe while singing – but there's one thing I don't know, and I warned you about it the first day we discussed this disgusting arrangement.”

St. James slumped back against the carriage wall and crossed his arms, an indulgent smile on his face. “All right then, Hummel – actually, sorry, I must remember to call you _Renner_ – what is it? What could I have possibly forgotten?”

 

“I am,” Kurt reminded him slowly, “a virgin. I have never even been kissed. As I said that loathsome day and as _you_ have just pointed out,  I have no idea how to manage what you want me to do. How do I seduce anyone at all?”

 

“I don't think there's much you'll have to do,” St. James replied coolly. “You're pretty enough, and besides, I told you it would be better if you were to be the...ah...recipient. As it were. Just get the Viscount's attention, talk to him, try to the best of your limited ability to not be an idiot, and...oh, hell, Renner, you've seen how I am with Miss Pierce and - ”

 

“No, actually, I haven't,” Kurt interrupted. “I've seen you _in_ bed with the maids – and again, damn you to hell for that – but I've never actually seen how you get them _into_ bed. Or bent across your desk, or over a chair, and despite my utter disgust for you I do actually have a burning curiosity to know how you got Miss Lopez to agree to attempting that on horseback.”

 

St. James waved his hand idly. “It would have been more impressive had I talked Miss Pierce into it – Miss Lopez has a reckless personality. Danger actually excites her...but that is all beside the point, Renner. I'm ordering you to get the man in bed, not in love. This is not a deathless romance. Stand still, look pretty, tumble into the nearest bed, take it like a man, and get caught.”

 

“It's that simple, is it?”

 

“You'd better hope so, if you want your father to live.”

 

Kurt felt his throat close up tight with fury. Unable to speak, he rummaged in the satchel of songbooks that he'd brought to while away the time he had to spend with the odious Steward, digging out a particularly interesting text and falling towards studying it. He did his very best to ignore St. James, who had become bored with baiting Kurt anyway and now was entertaining himself with memories of his and Miss Lopez' horseback romp.

 

He'd been surprised at how quickly he'd taken to the study of music. Mistress Corcoran – a pretty widow who had taken over her husband's business as a music teacher when he died of the same fever that claimed the life of Elizabeth Hummel – was similarly impressed, stating the he was easily the most talented student she'd ever taught. “Jesse was right. You have the voice of an angel and thank God you've got the intelligence to go with it,” she'd informed him after their first week together. “If you have the will to spend every free moment you have working and studying with me, then I can turn you into a competent performer and give you the skills you need to teach basic vocal instruction.”

 

“I'll give you night and day,” Kurt had promised fervently, willing to do anything to perform his task correctly and save his father. And he had, throwing himself into his studies until he was dreaming of music after he fell into his bed every night, hearing music everywhere he went, and singing more often than he was speaking. He'd been dubious about his ability to learn anything of substance in a mere two months, but with Mistress Corcoran riding gentle yet implacable herd over him and his own desperation, he'd just managed. It helped that they discovered that Lord Crawford had no interest in even _hearing_ about new music tutors until after the year's turning – that had bought him a little more time.

 

Remembering how pleased his father had been at his apparent good fortune made his heart hurt. Burt had been actually delighted that his son had been plucked from the stables in order to learn music. “But it is perfect!” he'd boomed in sheer joy when St. James came to inform the stableman that he would be appropriating Kurt for music lessons. “Kurt has always been more than just a man of horse – it has been fine for me, but I wanted more for him. Bless you for seeing it as well.”

 

It made Kurt's skin crawl that his father actually felt _gratitude_ towards Jesse St. James. Burt had no idea that the Steward was actually holding a metaphorical sword over his head. Swallowing his rage at the situation, he'd only hugged his father and nailed on a tight smile for St. James. The whole thing left him with a blinding headache.

 

He'd been so busy with lessons and studying for the last several weeks that the only time he'd gotten to spend with his father had been dinner time, a stipulation upon which both Hummels had insisted and St. James had been forced to grant. Even these had become part of his studies, as Burt wanted to hear all the songs his son was learning to sing, wanted to hear all about his lessons and Mistress Corcoran. He didn't understand anything about music, only that he enjoyed hearing his son sing, but he listened as intently as if Kurt had been discussing the merits of Andalusian stallions instead of the mechanics of reading music.

 

It broke Kurt's heart every night.

 

Last night they'd had their final supper together. Burt had known for a fortnight that Kurt would be leaving to pursue an opportunity found for him by the apparently sainted St. James and though he was sad to lose his son, he was even more excited than ever about the chance Kurt was being given.”Isn't it wonderful that Jesse has found this for you, Kurt? See how he is trying to be friends? Perhaps now you two can forget the past.”

 

 _He_ _would_ _not_ _think_ _twice_ _about_ _killing_ _you_ , Kurt wanted to shout across the table. Instead, he reached for a chunk of brown bread and shrugged. “Perhaps.” He'd had an idea lurking about in his mind for several days that he decided to broach at this time, his last opportunity to do so. “Father, actually...what if you came with me?”

 

“What?” Burt looked up from his cold ham and frowned, shaking his head. “No, Kurt. I have responsibilities here.”

 

“You could find a good job wherever we went,” Kurt urged, fighting to keep the desperation out of his voice. “We could go far away, anywhere. You're a good horseman and now I have a second sort of trade as well. We could go tonight. Just leave.”

 

“Kurt, what is this?” His father laughed as he ate. “Are you afraid to leave me? To leave home? All young men feel this way, I think. Do not worry. We will both be fine, and you will visit when you can, yes?”

 

He tried once more. “We've been here for over five years, Father. Don't you want to see new places, find what else is out there?”

 

“No.” Burt planted his elbow on the table top and pointed at Kurt. “I want _you_ to do all of those things, and I want to keep my responsibilities to the Earl of Huntingdon. Write me letters, Kurt. I am sure Jesse would read them to me if I asked. Tell me all of the wonderful things that you do. But this you must do on your own.”

 

Kurt knew he could not push the issue further without severely alarming his father. “All right.” He forced a smile. “As long as you promise that you'll ask Mistress Corcoran to read you the letters instead of St. James. She's quite kind and I think would have more time for you than he would.”

 

“Consider it done, my son.” Burt was smiling again. “I am so proud of you.”

 

 _I am so proud of you..._

 

His mouth and stomach twisted at the memory of his father's pride, at how oblivious Burt had to be at his potential death or dismemberment. At how Burt had no idea that Kurt's actual job opportunity was to ruin another man's life for no reason that he knew. He blinked back the stinging tears that threatened to spill onto his book.

 

“I find your melodrama both tedious and dull.” St. James spoke up from his side of the carriage, blue eyes directed firmly to the passing scenery. “We're coming upon the boat crossing into Bristol soon, and that's where we'll stop for the night. If you could _try_ to pull yourself together, Master Renner?”

 

Kurt withdrew a handkerchief from the clever inner pocket of the cloak he wore as defense against the bitter cold, the little cloth square reminding him of his first fateful encounter with the Earl of Hudson, the encounter that had led him to this impossible place in life. It took all his strength of will to not simply collapse in a flood of tears before his greatest enemy, only to dab lightly at his eyes and nose. “Possibly you should have thought of that before you decided to threaten my father's life and ruin mine.”

 

“Dear God in Heaven, you have got to be the dreariest, most depressing human being alive.”

 

He gazed out of his own carriage window, eyes still smarting. “And you the most repugnant.”

 

No, Kurt thought. With all apologies to his father, it seemed really quite unlikely that he and Jesse would ever be able to put the past behind them.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

 

Morning had not even dawned before Kurt was rousted out of his bed at the Bristol inn that he and St. James had stopped in for their night's sleep, was tossed a fresh set of clothing, and hustled into a new carriage with only a packet of hot buttered bread and cheese to break his fast. “We must get to Oxford by early evening to meet with our contact,” St. James had tersely explained while thrusting a flask of hot cider into Kurt's hand. “He will be writing your letter of introduction to Lord Crawford, but he wants to meet you and ensure that you'll be believable as a music instructor first. You'll spend the journey studying and singing for me, then. We cannot waste a single moment.”

 

“Letter of introduction? I thought you'd secured me the job?” Kurt already had a book opened on his lap and was studying by lamplight as he ate, being careful not to drip melted butter on the pages.

 

“No, I secured you an _audience_. One that you had better win over, Renner.” St. James leaned back. “Sing.”

 

And so they passed the hours to Oxford, bouts of reading and singing interspersed with verbal sparring matches between the two young men. They rode from pre-dawn to just before dusk, arriving in the cobbled streets of the scholar's town as the lamplighters began to go about their business. “Who will we be meeting?” Kurt inquired as he alit from the carriage with St. James close behind. The Steward consulted what appeared to be a letter that he retrieved from his doublet.

 

“We'll be meeting one of the local merchants of paper goods and music,” he explained as he motioned for Kurt to follow him to the inn they would be lodging in this evening. “He happens to be the same man who sells music to Edward Anderson and Amelia Freville. As Crawford is Lady Amelia's father, you can see why my contact wants to be sure you know what you're doing before he puts his name down as an endorsement.”

 

“I do see.” Kurt skirted an icy puddle in the road as he kept pace with the other man. “Will I have to sing for this man as well?”

 

“Of course.” St. James cast an incredulous look back over his shoulder. “You can do the Italian piece.”

 

Kurt frowned. “Do you mean _Fortuna_ _Desperata_?”

 

“Certainly, if you like.” St. James pushed open the door to the inn.”When we get our rooms, go wash up and come back downstairs. We're going directly to the meeting.” With that, he disappeared to find the innkeeper.

 

The former stableman couldn't even bring himself to roll his eyes at St. James' continued assumption that he was to be bullied around. He was suddenly too preoccupied. This was to be the true beginning of his mission. Kurt was suddenly seized with an attack of nerves that left his knees trembling.

 

“For the love of God, Renner, pull yourself together,” St. James snapped, shoving a key into his shaking hand. “Go. Go upstairs and splash some water on your face. I'll meet you here by the door.” With a push, he got Kurt moving up the stairs to locate his room.

 

He found it in short order, twisting the key in the lock and stumbling inside before leaning back against the door, drawing in deep breaths and trying to stop shaking. Darting his eyes around the room, he spotted a basin with water and a small mirror. Good. He made his way over and splashed the cool water onto his face, feeling instantly more calm as the droplets hit his skin.

 

Gently, Kurt patted his face dry with the small towel laid at the side of the basin, and then faced himself in the mirror. Against the gray velvet of his doublet – a darker one than yesterday's - his eyes were gray-green and wide with apprehension. He did not look like the self he knew, the stableman...but neither did he think he looked like a confident music teacher. Certainly he did not feel like one.

 

He felt and looked exactly like what he was – a frightened young man with the price of a very valuable life hanging over his head.

 

The banging on his door startled him. “Let's _go_ , Renner. I'll be waiting.”

 

“I'll be down in a moment, St. James.” Kurt took a deep breath and stood up straight, never taking his eyes off of the man in the looking glass. “For your father,” he whispered softly. “You can do this, for him. You can do anything for him.”

 

The reassurance melted away the last vestiges of fear, and suddenly Kurt could _see_ Florian Renner in the glass, standing tall and proud and confident in a way that Kurt Hummel never had. He nodded to his new self, taking in the slightly amused smile, the raised eyebrow. This was a man who could be believed as a singer and teacher. 

 

Armed now with his new persona, Kurt turned on his bootheel and strode directly out of his room, greeting St. James at the door of the inn. “Come now, let's not be late,” he snapped at the astonished Steward, nodding his head abruptly towards the street. “After all, this man is waiting for us.”

 

“Indeed.” Fastening his cloak around his shoulders, St. James ushered the both of them out of the inn and onto the streets of Oxford. “Well, well, Renner. What's got into you?”

 

“You said I have a job to do. This is me doing it.” Kurt fumbled only a bit with the clasp of his own cloak, a fine charcoal gray wool that complemented his outfit. “Now, you said we were meeting with the proprietor of a shop. What's his name?”

 

“Noah Puckerman.” Jesse was clearly off-balance at a newly confident Kurt, and answered with none of his usual superiority or disdain. Instead, he seemed to be actually treating Kurt like the equal he was. Interesting. “He and his wife Rachel have sold music, books, and other paper goods to the good people of Oxford for the last three years. As I said before, they are the principle providers of music to your target and your presumed future employer's daughter.”

 

“So this Edward sings as well?” _Could music be used for seduction?_ Kurt wondered to himself. He knew _he_ liked music and thought he would like to be sung to by another man. Perhaps this would be something he could use.

 

“Yes, as far as I know. I believe he plays the lute as well.” This information wasn't terribly important to Jesse clearly, given his dismissive shrug. “Lady Amelia plays the harpsichord – you won't have to worry about teaching her that. It's a very specialized instrument that requires very specific instruction, and there's a limited number of teachers. At any rate, she apparently plays very well and has for several years. All you'll really need to do is continue the work she's accomplished with her singing.”

 

“Breath techniques and new songs, I believe Mistress Corcoran suggested.” They were keeping an even pace as they made their way towards a building labeled “The Barrel and Bottle”. This, then, must be where they were meeting the mysterious Noah Puckerman. “What sort of name is Noah Puckerman?” Kurt wondered aloud, earning a familiar scornful glare from St. James as they made their way into the noisy pub and fought through to a private room in the back

 

“It's Jewish.”

 

Kurt frowned. “But Jews have not been allowed in England for decades. Centuries.”

 

“And there are still no Jews in England,” intoned a gruff voice from the back of the room just as Jesse closed the door behind them. “Only Christian men with Jewish names.”

 

Kurt felt his eyes widen at the sight of the man dressed in unrelieved black, his dark eyes seeming to burn holes right through to see into Kurt's very soul. His dark hair, olive skin, and a voice that almost swallowed all the vowels it uttered marked him as a definite non-native of England. As he stood up and prowled across the room to greet them, he seemed like no merchant Kurt had ever encountered in his young life. He seemed much too dangerous to be a mere merchant.

 

Then again, perhaps that was why he was acquainted with Jesse St. James. Certainly no reputable and safe merchant would be involved in the sort of scheme that the Steward had planned.

 

“Noah. It's good to see you again.” Jesse put forth a hand and a bright smile. The shopkeeper glanced down at the hand and snorted in derision.

 

“I'll never be able to say the same about you, St. James.” He glanced at Kurt. “Is this your little songbird?”

 

Kurt liked the imagery of himself as a songbird. It wasn't inaccurate – he was captive, in a metaphorical iron cage, forced to sing and be attractive. He also liked that this dangerous merchant seemed to dislike St. James as much as he himself did. Maybe he would be more help to him than the Steward had been.

 

Disconcerted, Jesse motioned for Kurt to move closer. “Noah, this is Florian Renner - ” He frowned at being cut off by another snort from the merchant.

 

“Whatever his name is, it's _not_ Florian Renner, St. James. But never mind.” The man inclined his head and looked Kurt over, taking his measure and not seeming displeased at what he saw. “Whoever he is, he is clearly worth ten times what I could get for your conniving hide.”

 

Kurt had to fight to stifle his laughter. He liked Noah Puckerman more with each passing moment. “It's a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

 

Noah smiled and it managed to be both menacing and gentle at the same time. “No, it's probably not. Not if this bastard is involved. You don't seem a bad sort – what's he holding over your head?”

 

 _I like men._ “My father's life. You?”

 

Puckerman ignored the question to turn an incredulous stare on St. James. “I knew you were a first class jackass, St. James, but this is a new low even for you. You're going to kill his father if he doesn't do what you want?”

 

“The future of England and her king depends on the success of our mission,” Jesse snapped, not noticing that Kurt's eyes had just grown to the size of plates at this information. “I'd kill my own father to ensure that, were he not already dead.”

 

“I do wager that you would,” Puckerman muttered, turning to stalk back to the table in the back of the room, snatching up a mug of ale. “I also happen to know that there is no way you'd be doing this strictly for the cause of king and country, but it makes me ill just to look at you, so I won't ask.” He took a long drink of his ale. “Renner, why don't you go ahead and sing for me?”

 

“What, now? Already?” A vestige of the old Kurt manifested in his momentary panic.

 

“Yes, now. I'll buy you a drink afterwards.” Noah seemed to be trying to be kind to Kurt in a way he couldn't be bothered to do for St. James, who was glowering in the opposite corner of the room. After being stuck with the Steward's hateful company for so many hours, even a small drop of kindness could go a long way; the tension that had seized Kurt melted away in its influence. “Just something short will do. I need to ensure that my recommendation is backed by actual talent and knowledge.”

 

It was a sensible precaution, Kurt knew. He took a deep breath and nodded. “All right, then.” With no fanfare or prelude, he launched into his selected piece.

 

 _Fortuna desperata_

 _Iniqua e maledecta, maledecta_

 _Che de tal dona electa_

 _De tal dona electa_

 _ La fama hai denigrata _

_ La fama hai denigrata... _

 

It wasn't a terribly long song when only one person was singing it, but he thought it sounded nice enough all the same. He glanced at the other two men. St. James was, predictably, picking at his cuticles and could not be more bored. Puckerman, on the other hand...

 

Noah Puckerman, who looked like he could break Kurt over his knee and not sweat a drop, was open-mouthed in astonishment and it almost appeared that he was going to cry.

 

“That voice...” Puckerman was on his feet pointing at Kurt, but glaring accusingly at St. James. “A voice like _that_ and you're sending him to do your dirty work with it?”

 

St. James looked up and shrugged. “Someone has to do it. What of it?”

 

“I could run you through right now and no one would mourn your passing,” Noah spat, and sure enough, Kurt saw that the man had a hand on the hilt of a sword that was resting on the table. A flash of fear went through him, but he saw that the same could not be said about Jesse St. James, who pushed himself away from the wall upon which he leaned and paced over to the angry shopkeeper.

 

“But you,” he said simply. “You, Noah, would very much miss your lovely Jewess if her throat were to be slit, wouldn't you?”

 

It was hard to tell in the light of the lanterns that circled the room, but Kurt thought that Puckerman might have suddenly gone very pale. Certainly he went exceedingly still.

 

“I have people everywhere,” St. James mentioned casually, like he was talking about purchasing livestock or a new outfit. “If anything happens to me, then everything that I have ever promised the two of you would happen, will happen. Never doubt me, never challenge me.”

 

Kurt's mouth was dry, and he was willing to bet that Puckerman's was as well in the face of St. James and his fearless cruelty. There was no low to which the man would not stoop, he was beginning to realize with a sick feeling in his stomach. Worse, there was nothing he nor Puckerman nor anyone else could do about it. 

 

Jesse was continuing on. “I'm afraid Florian and I won't have the time to have a drink with you, Puckerman,” he purred with mock regret in his voice. “I gather from your reaction, however, that you're quite willing to write the letter of introduction to Lord Crawford?”

 

“Yes.” Noah nodded, obviously defeated. “I have an order of music in for Lady Amelia. I'll send a messenger to notify her tomorrow, and when she comes in I'll have the letter ready to give her as well.”

 

“Excellent.” St. James was brusque and confident in a way he had not been since he'd been greeted with the persona of Florian Renner for the first time a mere hour ago. This was a man who knew he'd regained the upper hand. “We're staying at The Owlery. Be sure you notify us as soon as you know they're ready to give Florian an audience.” With a nod of his head, he directed Kurt out the door of the room. Kurt tried to aim a glance of apology and commiseration to the merchant, but the man's head was hung too low with anger and defeat to notice it.

 

Jesse took Kurt by the elbow and hustled him through the pub. “Well! That went excellently!” He was practically skipping in his delight as they exited to the street. “We'll go get supper at the inn and then retire early so that you can study some more. I expect we'll be waiting a few days for your summons to arrive.”

 

Kurt could only stare at him. “You just threatened that man's wife. Have you even _met_ his wife?”

 

“Rachel? No. But I don't need to. I only need to know that she's alive and important to him.” St. James shrugged and strode through the streets of Oxford to get them back to their lodgings. Kurt followed, still rocked with incredulity.

 

“There is truly no depth to which you will not descend, is there, St. James?”

 

The Steward flashed his cold, charismatic smile back over his shoulder. “In the service of king, country, and my own ambition – no, Renner. No, there is not.”

 

A chill went through Kurt that had nothing to do with the early January weather, and not for the first time since this had all began, he prayed to a God he was no longer sure he believed in for mercy, grace, and his safe deliverance from evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love and thanks to MotherGoddamn for her continued awesome beta work and cheerleading. You can find many choral arrangements of "Fortuna Desperata" on YouTube; it's a gorgeous choral piece and I thought it a fairly apt choice for our young stableman turned spy and music teacher. As for the weirdness of the fonts in this chapter...I don't know what happened, or how to fix it. I am so sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine has a plan to help Amelia, while Amelia has a plan to help herself.

It had taken Blaine most of the holiday season and a trio of very intense conversations with Alice to get to this point, the point where he was sitting in the same room where Amelia had cried and slapped him and confessed her fear of marriage – sitting and waiting once more to speak to her father.

 

He was nervous about his plan, for yes, he did actually have one. A profoundly unorthodox and irregular one; he wasn't sure how Lord Crawford would view it. But he was absolutely confident that it was the very best thing he could do for his friend, and he owed it to her to at least try. So here he was, sitting. Waiting.

 

As if summoned by his fleeting thought of her, Amelia craned her head around the doorway of the sitting room, completely surprised to see him there. “Blaine!”

 

He grinned and got to his feet, extending his hands for her to grab onto as she ran over to him. With a golden laugh, Amelia swung the both of them around and into a dizzying spiral. “I haven't seen you in so long! What are you doing here? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”

 

“I'm here to talk to your father,” he laughed, a little dizzy. “I've got an important subject to discuss.”

 

To his immense shock Blaine found himself abruptly stumbling backwards, landing with fortuitous circumstance in the chair he'd recently vacated. He was pleased to only hit the arm of the chair once on the way down, though he thought he was going to definitely have a bruised rib from the force of the fall. “Amelia! What the devil?”

 

She was actually still standing in the middle of the room where she'd released his hands and sent him flying. Blaine watched in astonishment as she not only tossed her hair, she _stamped her foot_. It was quite clear that something he had said had just made her very angry. The good news was that he didn't have to wait very long for her to explain it. “Damn it! No! Not today, Blaine! I will not let your stupid war talk ruin my plan!”

 

“Amelia! _Language_.” It wasn't that he was shocked – he'd _taught_ her most of the improper words she knew - it was simply that he knew that if anyone but him overheard her, she would be in quite a lot of trouble, and that was the last thing he needed right now. For his plan to work, he needed Amelia to be in no trouble whatsoever. 

 

And what was this about a plan that  _she_ had?

 

“Oh, to hell with you and your _language_ ,” Amelia mocked, hands on hips as she glared at him. “I have plans for today and you are going to ruin them _all._ ” 

 

 _By God, it's like watching a kitten try to get angry,_ Blaine marveled, working to not laugh right into her very angry face. He had no desire at all to get slapped again. “Amelia, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't know. What were your plans? Perhaps we can work something out?”

 

She huffed out an indignant breath and flopped herself down into the other wing chair, assuming an unladylike slouch that would have had her mother screaming. “I need to talk to Papa. Someone is coming to see us.”

 

Blaine felt his eyebrows shoot up under the tangle of curls that dipped over his forehead. “You took it upon yourself to arrange a visitor, 'Melia? Oh, that's really not on.”

 

“I don't care,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her blue and silver bodice. “Papa has been avoiding me or changing the subject whenever I bring this up, and I'm quite tired of it. I know he's hoping to get me married off before he has to think about this.”

 

“Think about _what_ , Amelia?” _Honestly_ , Blaine thought. Sometimes having a conversation with her was, he imagined, what it must have been like to listen to the Delphic Oracle – it all sounded very important, but there was no apparent _point_.

 

“I want a music teacher,” she threw out stubbornly, leaning even more into her slouch. “I haven't had a proper singing lesson in months. I know Papa wants it to become someone else's problem, but since I have no intention of becoming someone else's problem myself, I am taking matters into my own hands.” With exaggerated care, she examined her perfectly tended hands with their musician's delicate fingers.

 

Blaine closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh,  _Amelia_ . What have you done?”

 

“Noah at the music shop had a recommendation for me when I went to go pick up the music we ordered,” she replied, the words spilling out in a rush as she shot up to her feet and came to kneel beside his chair. “He said he'd heard the man sing himself, personally, and that he'd never heard anything like it. See here, there's a letter of introduction.” Amelia fished a bit of crackling parchment out of the small pouch tied at her waist, handing it to Blaine and beaming with pride at her cleverness.

 

“ _My Lord Crawford_ \- ” he began, cutting off instantly as his jaw dropped. “Amelia Eleanor Agnes Freville, I don't believe you. This is addressed to your _father_ , not you.”

 

She flapped her hand with impatience. “I don't care, he would have just thrown it out or burned it. Keep reading!”

 

“ _My Lord Crawford, it is my understanding that since William Schuester has departed for his homeland, you are in need of a new music teacher and entertainer._ ” Blaine shook his head. “How would he even know that?”

 

“I may have complained. Blaine, don't stop reading, please!”

 

“Crack the whip a bit more, why don't you?” He was laughing, but at her glare, he relented and read on. “ _It was my great privilege to hear a voice like none other just the other night, and I immediately thought of you and the vacancy in your household._ Oh, did he now?” His voice was colored with skepticism. “ _It is this humble merchant's opinion that he would be a jewel in any noble family's home, that anyone would clamor for the honor to hire him_ – honestly, Amelia, it's too good to be true.”

 

Her chin and jaw settled into a familiar mulish expression. “If you can use all of my names, I can use all of yours, Blaine. Don't make me.”

 

“Fine.” He rolled his eyes at her for good measure. “ _Anyone would clamor for the honor to hire him, but I thought that you, with your talented and lovely daughters, would be the one to benefit most and so it is to you that I come first with this recommendation and letter of introduction_.” Blaine looked up from the parchment. “Well, well. Does this paragon of perfection have a name?”

 

Amelia pressed her lips together in exasperation. “If you could finish reading without your waspish commentary, then you'd find out.”

 

He glanced down at the bottom of the page. “Ah, I see. Florian Renner. He sounds as foreign as your Schuester, who's to say that he won't just flee back to his homeland as well, 'Melia?”

 

“I will do my best to talk him out of it.” Amelia pushed to standing, staring imperiously down at her friend and holding out her hand for the parchment. “At any rate, it matters not. He will be here very soon, Blaine, and I need to talk to Papa before he gets here. You are going to ruin _everything_.”

 

Blaine sighed and gave the letter back as he got to his own feet. “Perhaps we should approach him together. I can keep him from murdering you.”

 

“And why would I even think of murdering my favorite third daughter?” Lord Crawford had managed to approach so quietly that neither heard him coming. They leaped and turned to face him with wide, startled eyes, so alike in their shock that it made him laugh.

 

Amelia recovered first. “I'm your only third daughter, Papa,” she admonished as she stepped to the doorway to embrace him. “And you're not going to murder me. Blaine exaggerates.”

 

“Perhaps, but not generally without cause,” the Earl mused with a sigh. “You're caught out now, might as well tell me what you've done, Amelia.”

 

Blaine watched as Amelia's chin once again set with stubborn determination. “I want a new music teacher, Papa.”

 

“Amelia...” Lord Crawford frowned. “We've discussed this.”

 

“No, we have _not_.” She stamped her foot again and jabbed an accusing finger up towards her father's face. “I have _tried_ to discuss it, and you always change the subject. Or you leave the room, which, Papa, I don't mind telling you is really quite rude. I want a new music teacher. I've found one that could possibly work.”

 

“You what! How did you - ”

 

“Never mind the how.” Amelia stepped back and crossed her arms. “The point is that I've done it, and he's coming this afternoon to sing for us.”

 

Lord Crawford actually puffed up in anger. “Now see here, Amelia - ”

 

“No, _you_ see, Papa.” She looked genuinely frightening in this moment. Blaine had never been more glad to not be the target of Amelia's ire in his _life._ “I know you're trying to marry me off and that's why you don't want to hire a new teacher. God knows Lizzie, Abigail and Katherine aren't musically inclined at all, and so the teacher would mostly be for me. Which would be a waste if you're trying to send me away very soon.” Taking a deep breath, she looked her father straight in the eyes. “But Papa, I don't want to get married and leave home, and I know that thus far, the choices that have been presented have not met with your approval.”

 

The Earl of Crawford visibly softened when he looked at his daughter, really  _looked_ at her and saw her true self and her unhappiness. “Amelia, love. I'm only trying to do what's best for you.”

 

“I know, Papa. But you haven't asked _me_ what is best for me. I think I would be the one to know.”

 

The words were bold, and should have infuriated Lord Crawford. Blaine actually sucked in a deep breath as he waited for the man to explode, wondering if he should intervene yet. He was pleasantly surprised when Crawford's only reaction was to heave another sigh and grip his daughter by her arms. “All right, Amelia. Why don't you tell me what you want?”

 

“I want to stay home,” she murmured, gazing up from under her golden lashes. “If war is to come – and I know it is coming, I have overheard much – then I do not want to be away from all that I know and love, Papa. I want things to be as normal as they possibly can be in the middle of catastrophe.”

 

Crawford guided Amelia to one of the wing chairs and settled her into it, pulling a footstool up for his own perch. “I wish that I could let you stay, my darling. But it's not only you I'm sending away.” At her look of surprise, he nodded. “Your mother's sister has room for three, so Lizzie, Abigail, and Katherine will be staying with Bettina. I thought that since you were of age – past being of age – to be married, that I would be doing you a favor sending you to a husband and a home of your own.” He sighed. “I'm sorry, Amelia. I have to send you  _somewhere_ , to keep you safe.”

 

Blaine cleared his throat. “Actually, I think this is where I might come in to help.”

 

The Frevilles looked at him with curiosity all over their faces. “Edward. I'd almost forgotten you were there,” the Earl replied with apology in his voice. “With all due respect, young man, what do you think you can do to help? Short of marrying Amelia, which...I do think of you as a son, but I agree with the two of you on this point. I'm not sure it's a good idea.”

 

“Not at all.” Blaine smiled and winked at Amelia, who put on a look of mock affront at his rejection of her. “But something else had occurred to me...you've never fostered Amelia out.”

 

Lord Crawford blink, resembling nothing so much as an owl as he did. “No. We haven't. It didn't seem entirely necessary. We didn't foster Jane or Mary out, either. ”

 

Blaine took a deep breath. “This is what I came to discuss with you. Aunt Alice wonders if you might want to foster Amelia at Dalton, with her.”

 

“Oh, Blaine,” Amelia breathed, a faint hope that she didn't dare fully voice threaded through her words.

 

“Edward, this is highly irregular,” Crawford began, his brow furrowed with concern. 

 

“I understand, sir.” Blaine nodded and opened out his hands to indicate his sincerity. “But I think it would solve many problems. Amelia would be safe – you said yourself I have the best Marshal in the land, he'd absolutely do his best for her. She would be fostered, a bit late, but she'd learn what few housekeeping skills she doesn't already know from Aunt Alice and my own chatelaine, Emma Pillsbury. Emma is...” Blaine thought about how to phrase this. “She's very thorough,” he concluded. “And we could put her in the chamber that links to the master one, that aunt Alice stays in. It would all be very proper.”

 

Crawford gazed at Blaine with deep assessment. “You've thought quite hard about this.”

 

“Yes,” Blaine replied simply, walking over to Amelia and picking her hand up off of the arm of her chair so that he could twine their fingers together. “I have. She is my friend. I want her happy, I want her safe. I think you want these same things.”

 

“I do. And it isn't an especially bad idea.” At his daughter's excited squeal, Lord Crawford held up a cautioning hand. “I shall have to discuss it with your mother, Amelia. And with Alice as well. I want to be sure this isn't going to be a burden on anyone _and_ I need to ensure that all propriety is observed.”

 

Blaine nodded, gripping Amelia's hand tighter. “I completely understand, sir. I can assure you that the Baroness and I have had many long conversations about it, and that it's not a decision either of us made lightly. We love Amelia and think she would be happy with us.”

 

“As I said, I'll think about it.” The Earl seemed to be struck by a realization. “But now what the devil do we do with this teacher that's coming to the Keep? Amelia, you should never have arranged this without speaking to me first.”

 

“If I'd spoken to you first, it would never have gotten arranged,” she countered, drawing herself upright in her seat and pinning her father with her very best _I do not take no for an answer_ look. Which was, Blaine had to admit, very impressive.

 

He felt it might be best to step in before either got their temper up. “I'd be glad to have him at Dalton,” he sighed, wondering if he'd regret this at all. “He comes highly recommended from a trusted source. If he can actually sing and is a competent teacher – and if you'll help with the cost, sir – then he can lodge under my roof. I have the space and a music room as good as the one here.”

 

“Oh, Papa! Blaine! You've both made me so happy!” Amelia bounced up and grabbed the both of them in an awkward hug.

 

“It's not confirmed, Amelia,” Lord Crawford cautioned. Yet both young people heard the note of resignation in his voice that told them it actually was all but confirmed. They beamed delighted smiles at each other. “Oh, go on. You might as well at least hear the man out. I'll pass, if you don't mind. I wouldn't have any idea whether he sings well or sounds like a rooster.”

 

Amelia didn't need a second invitation. “Come, Blaine! He'll be here any minute, let's set up the music room!” She seized his wrist and began dragging him out of the room and up the spiral staircase leading to the Crawford music library. “Oh, this is all turning out more wonderfully than I had ever hoped.” Bursting through the door, she spun in a happy circle, skirts fanning around her as she laughed into the sunshine. “I've never been so happy.”

 

Blaine leaned against the doorway and watched her fondly. “Nor have I. I'm glad he was receptive to the idea.”

 

“Oh, but...” She stopped and came back to the door, taking his hand with a worried expression. “Blaine, I didn't expect you to do this for me, and now I'm bringing an entire extra person, perhaps. Are you sure that's quite all right?”

 

“It's fine, pretty. Really it is. I meant it when I said I want you safe and happy, and I feel better now that I get to ensure it myself.” He frowned momentarily. “I hope this Florian person isn't entirely incompetent, however. Your father and I won't like paying for someone useless.”

 

“Noah would never recommend anyone useless,” she protested, clasping both of her hands around his. “It's going to be so wonderful!” At the sound of a carriage on the courtyard cobblestones, she spun and ran for the window, leaning out to see if she could catch a glimpse. “That _must_ be him! It's so exciting!” In a flurry of motion, Amelia was around the room straightening loose sheets of music, brushing a streak of dust off of the harpsichord with a fold of her skirt, turning in place to look around and be sure they had enough chairs. “Oh, I should have told you I was doing this, you could have brought your lute,” she fussed.

 

Blaine had to laugh. “Amelia. He's to be your music instructor, not mine. I don't need to sing with him.”

 

“I think everything is as ready as it could be,” she decided, now standing in the middle of the room and bouncing anxiously. “Go meet him, Blaine! Bring him back up here. I'll wait.”

 

“You're quite insane, my darling,” Blaine chuckled, ducking out of the room. As he approached the staircase, he heard voices. One was Lord Crawford's warm rumble. The other he didn't know. 

 

“Just head up those stairs, lad,” Crawford was saying. “I'm sure Amelia will be making enough noise for you to find your way to the room.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” was the reply of a high, clear voice. Blaine frowned. Hadn't Amelia said that this Florian was a man? He began his journey down the stairs to meet the prospective teacher, now intensely curious as to what he should expect.

 

They met at the halfway point.

 

 _Oh,_ thought Blaine irrelevantly.  _Lightning._

 

In that instant, Edward Blaine Anderson was utterly _gone,_ completely lost in a desire he had not felt in a very long time.

 

It was the eyes that caught him first, wide pools of deep sky blue set in a face that seemed carved out of the finest marble by the most accomplished of artists. Blaine felt as though he could drown in them and be quite happy to do it. But first, his fingers itched to trace over those high cheekbones, that lightly upturned nose and the faint dusting of freckles over it, the perfect mouth that he suddenly wanted to kiss.

 

A shy grace seemed to imbue the man – because this was, gloriously and undoubtedly, a  _man_ – as he shifted slightly on the staircase, the deep cobalt shaded velvet of his doublet rustling soft with the movement. As he tilted his head to gaze at Blaine in inquiry, a wave of sun-streaked chestnut hair fell over his brow and his cheeks pinked. “H-hello,” he stammered, even the slight awkwardness sounding lovely in that crystalline voice. “I'm so sorry. I was seeking the Lady Amelia?”

 

“I...” Blaine could not form a single coherent thought. He hadn't felt anything even remotely like this in so many years, he didn't know what to do with himself. It had been easy to make and keep his informal vow of celibacy because there hadn't been anyone who tempted him even slightly in the way that Thad had, not before nor since. 

 

Until today.

 

He realized the other man was gazing at him, patience and trepidation in his extraordinary eyes. Blaine swallowed and licked his dry lips. “I'm terribly sorry.” Was that a tremor in his voice? He could do better than this. “Of course. She's right this way.” He turned to ascend the stairs. “I'm Edward. Blaine, I mean. Viscount Dalton.” He knew he sounded like an idiot who didn't even know his own name, and felt a blush climb up his neck and cheeks.

 

“Florian. Florian Renner,” replied the other man, quietly, musically. “Do you live here as well?”

 

“No. I'm a close friend of the Lady Amelia. She's asked me to sit in with her to listen to you.” Blaine tried to smile in reassurance, but it was difficult when he was struggling with the surprising desire to press this beautiful, stranger against the wall and kiss him senseless. “She's quite eager to meet you – in fact, we should really make haste. Come, please,” he trailed off with a mumble, aware that he very much wanted those words to mean something else entirely. Without thinking, he reached down to take the man's hand and pull him upstairs.

 

He nearly came undone then with the flash of lightning that went through him at the touch of their fingertips. This was  _more,_ so much more in every possible way than it had ever been with Thad, and in such an infinitesimally small space of time that his head spun with the insanity of it all. The weight of his years of celibacy seemed to land on his shoulders all at once, heavy and portentous.

 

They had to get through this audience. And then he would go home.  _Home_ . Blaine groaned internally, remembering that he had promised to grant this man lodging if Amelia should find him suitable. He did not know whether to pray that she would – or wouldn't.  _Damn you to hell, Amelia_ , he thought, and then mentally castigated himself for even thinking such a thing.

 

He led Florian to the music library, trying not to think of the softness of the skin on the back of the hand he held, trying  _especially_ not to think of the curiously calloused fingers and palm and what they would feel like on  _his_ skin. The singer was taller, too, magnificently long-legged, and Blaine absolutely tried not to think about how much he liked  _that_ .

 

They could hear the tinkling notes of the harpsichord from the end of the corridor. When he pushed the door open, Amelia rose from her seat and smiled at the two of them. “Blaine, thank you! This must be Florian.”

 

“Yes.” The singer pulled his hand free of Blaine's grasp with a gentle smile of his own before striding to meet Amelia and bow to her. The extravagant gesture afforded the Viscount an unobstructed view of what appeared to be, under the short doublet, one of the most excellently muscled backsides ever to be seen outside of a gathering of Greek statues. 

 

Oh, he was in  _so_ much trouble.

 

“...my name of course is Lady Amelia Freville,” Blaine heard his friend explain to the beautiful man in front of her. “You'll be teaching me. And you've met my friend Edward.”

 

“Blaine,” he volunteered with a croak that made him shake his head in irritation. Clearing his throat, he went on, addressing the curious look that Florian was directing to him. “Everyone calls me Blaine except for my aunt and Amelia's father.”

 

“Yes, we met on the staircase,” Florian nodded, smiling again at Blaine and making him feel as though all the air was being pulled from his body. “He mentioned you would both be listening to me?”

 

“Indeed. Blaine is also an excellent musician and singer.” Amelia beamed with pride. “And as I've just learned this afternoon, I'll be fostering at his estate, which means you'll go with me – so since he will be employing you, it behooves him to ensure that you are capable of giving me a good education.”

 

“Living with you? Not here?” Florian's eyes were full of surprise and...something else, something Blaine couldn't quite catch. “But why?”

 

“Times are changing,” Blaine replied as lightly as he could manage. “Events are happening that necessitate Amelia coming to stay where I can keep an eye on her. I hope that staying at Dalton House won't be a problem. It's not as large, but my music library is the equal of the one here.”

 

Florian shook his head. “No, that's perfectly fine. Does that mean the two of you are...” He pointed a finger at them and moved it back and forth between them to indicate a bond. It took Blaine and Amelia a moment to realize what he was trying to imply.

 

“Oh, no, my goodness no,” Amelia burbled hurriedly. “Never in a thousand years. It would be a disaster.”

 

Blaine stared at her, actually slightly offended. “Good God, Amelia, why don't you tell the man how you  _really_ feel?” He was gratified when she had the good grace to blush a fiery red all the way up to the roots of her golden hair.

 

“Oh, hush. You know exactly what I mean.” She turned to Florian. “Blaine and I are quite close in age, and Dalton is a neighboring estate to Crawford. We are merely friends and have always been thus. Anything more would be like kissing my brother.”

 

“I see.” The man seemed vaguely stunned. Blaine could relate to that. Especially when Florian looked away from Amelia to smile sweetly at Blaine. 

 

 _It's like getting hit in the head with the hilt of David's sword_ , he thought, dazed.

 

“Why don't you and I have a seat,” Amelia waved her hand at Blaine to catch his attention, giving him an odd look when he didn't immediately respond. “Then Florian can sing for us. You have got something prepared, I hope?” 

 

“Of course. I hope _Fortuna Desperata_ is a suitable choice.”

 

She nodded. “Eminently. How lovely. Blaine?” She frowned; Blaine didn't usually require quite so much  _directing._ “Blaine!” Sidling over to him, she grabbed his arm roughly, dragging him over to their waiting chairs. As Florian remained by the harpsichord and readied himself, Amelia leaned over to hiss in Blaine's ear. “What in the name of all that is good and holy has gotten  _into_ you, Blaine?”

 

“Gotten into me? What about you? _Oh my goodness no, never in a thousand years,_ ” he mimicked, settling into the brocaded chair Amelia had steered him to. “I'm not exactly a bad catch, you know. You don't have to make me sound repugnant.”

 

“I wasn't trying to!” Amelia protested, pinching him hard on the inside of his arm, where even through his sleeve he felt the painful twist of soft flesh. “We've _always_ agreed that we were utterly unsuited. And besides! You like boy - ” She cut off, mouth forming a perfect astonished O as her blue eyes grew large and delighted. “You _like_ him.”

 

“What? No. Nonsense, Amelia.” But the blush crawling up Blaine's cheeks and spreading to the tips of his ears utterly belied his denial, and Amelia practically bounced in her seat.

 

“Oh, this is _marvelous_.” She glanced over at Florian out of the corner of her eye. “He certainly is _pretty_.”

 

“ _Amelia._ I am really going to need you to be quiet.” He turned his head slightly to lock eyes with her. “And what is this attitude from you? Weren't you the one reminding me about the Church's stance on my questionable proclivities all those years ago?”

 

She waved away his objections. “That was then. Besides, as nice and good-looking as Thad is, oh, Blaine, this one's  _lovely_ . And I don't want you to be alone. I never did. I really just don't want to walk in on you in the linen closet again. I think you can manage  _that_ now that you're an adult, don't you?”

 

Blaine groaned and covered his face with his hand. “We are absolutely not having this conversation.”

 

“When he bowed to me, were you looking at his - ”

 

Thankfully, Florian turned to them and cleared his throat before Amelia could finish that horrifying sentence. “My Lord, my Lady, if you are ready?” At their nod, he nodded in return and opened his mouth to sing.

 

And if Blaine thought he was lost and in trouble before, he realized he was in far over his head the moment the first notes of  _Fortuna Desperata_ soared into the air and cascaded down around him, the angelic crystal of Florian's incredible voice seeming to call directly to his heart and twist his soul in longing.

 

He  _needed_ this man like he needed air to breathe, needed to blend his own mellow tenor with those bell-like tones, needed to hold him in his arms and touch his skin and kiss his perfect, perfect mouth and - 

 

Blaine stopped his line of thought as his hose grew ever so slightly uncomfortably tight, and adjusted his doublet as best he could to hide the stirring there. He didn't even know if Florian was inclined to the same...interests. He did know he was perfectly willing to find out. And if not, well. He'd just have to do his level best to convince him that an afternoon romp would be a perfectly fine thing anyway.

 

 _Dear God, what is wrong with me?_ Blaine was horrified at how out of control his thoughts and feelings were raging. He was so preoccupied with trying to wrestle himself back into some semblance of proper order that it took him a moment to realize the silence in the room. Florian and Amelia were gazing at him – warily, in the case of former, and with more mischievous glee than he cared to see in the eyes of the latter. “Ah, that was wonderful, Master Renner. Really quite exquisite.”

 

“Thank you.” The singer bowed to the two of them and smiled. “If you like, my Lady, I can take you through a quick lesson, simply to demonstrate that I can be of use to you.”

 

“Oh, you'll be plenty of use to me,” Amelia piped up, eyes twinkling and much too cheerful for Blaine's comfort. When he poked her in the side, however, she simply gave him another pinch on the same spot of his arm that she'd gotten before, causing him to stifle a squeak of pain. Lord Crawford had been right; his daughter did fight dirty. “But yes, why don't you take me through scales and breathing? It's nice to just be sure.” She bounced out of her chair and all but skipped over to the harpsichord, bending her blonde head to meet the singer's darker one and commencing a whispered conversation.

 

Blaine remained seated, willing his excitable groin to  _please_ calm down. His breathing hitched in his chest as he watched Florian speak to Amelia, that perfect pink mouth forming around whatever he was saying with an unpracticed grace and sensuality. When the man circled around behind Amelia and wrapped one arm around her waist, demonstrating where he wanted her next breath to come from, Blaine wondered if perhaps he  _could_ find a way to justify lessons. 

 

He just wanted to  _touch_ the man. To be touched by him. To kiss him long and slow and hard and rough and sweet and angry and just...in a hundred different ways, at a hundred different times, forever.

 

Blaine wondered if all the years of self-imposed celibacy had completely addled his brain. Certainly there could be no other reason he was behaving like this over a man he had met for the first time less than an hour ago. Could there? He had no idea. All he knew was that he felt like he was drowning in lust, it was obviously having a deleterious effect on his mind, and he needed to get home as soon as he possibly could.

 

“I think Master Renner will do quite nicely for you, Amelia,” he blurted, leaping to his feet. The pair turned to stare at him as he babbled like a fool. “I'll see that rooms are prepared for you, sir. There are still details to work out as to when Amelia and her entourage will be able to move in, but I'm sure it's soon. I'll make it soon. Are you sure it's quite all right that you move to Dalton instead of Crawford? If not I'm sure we can make some sort of arrangement - ”

 

“Blaine.” Amelia was biting her lower lip in amusement, and he could see her clasping her fingers tightly together in an effort not to laugh at him. Well, that was kind of her. “Everything is going to be fine.” Her eyes were fully a-sparkle with barely contained mirth. “Master Renner can move into Master Schuester's old rooms until you and I work out our arrangements for Dalton House. I thank you very much for coming, but why don't you run along home and we'll go talk to Papa?” _Go,_ her enormous smile told him, _go **now** before you make an even bigger idiot out of yourself than I can possibly repair for you._

 

He nodded to the both of them. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Master Renner.”

 

“Likewise.” The heartbreakingly beautiful smile that Florian turned on to Blaine distracted the Viscount so much that he came dangerously close to running into the door frame. He returned a smile that he knew was half-crazed and only just restrained himself from bolting out of the room.

 

 _ Oh, Anderson, _ he thought in despair as he wrapped up in his cloak and made his way to the stables to retrieve his horse,  _ You are in an  **unbelievable** amount of trouble. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many continued thanks to MotherGoddamn for her gracious cheerleading and readthroughs. She also advised that I should probably let you, the reading audience, know who my brain insists on seeing as Amelia whenever I write her, so that you could see her too - it's Amanda Seyfried of "Mean Girls" and "Mamma Mia" fame. It's been Amanda since Amelia's first appearance and I don't know why...I just go with it.
> 
> I'd like to really thank those of you who take the time to leave feedback and interact with me. It means an awful lot and I do appreciate it. I can also be found on Tumblr (glass-parade) and LJ (a_glass_parade) if you care to play along!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Kurt's first full night as "Florian," and he's got too much on his mind to even think about going to sleep.

Kurt lay on the bed in his temporary quarters at Crawford Keep, boots on the coverlet in a way that he was sure Lady Crawford would deeply disapprove of were she to see it. He didn't care; couldn't muster up the wherewithal to do so. He had much too much on his mind to sort through, and it was keeping him awake long past the time he should have been sleeping. He hadn't even bothered to undress when he lay down.

 

The last two days had been something like a whirlwind. After his curious yet successful audience with Lady Amelia and the surprising Viscount Dalton, he'd returned to his Oxford inn to find Jesse St. James sitting in his room, impatience tracing every line of his body. “Well?” the Steward had demanded, glaring. “Did it go well?”

 

“Yes,” Kurt replied, short and brusque. He'd begun gathering his belongings together, not wanting to look at the other man. “Lord Crawford has asked me to move in tomorrow.”

 

Jesse had jumped to his feet and punched the air in triumph. “Yes,” he'd said with a hiss, beginning to pace the small room. “Excellent, excellent, excellent. Did you meet Viscount Dalton?”

 

Kurt had felt fortunate that St. James' back was to him in that moment, because his hands stilled briefly before he answered, and he was sure that would have given him away. “No.”

 

He didn't know why he lied. Instinct had been screaming that he needed to. He didn't fight it because for the first time since this whole misadventure had begun, there was something he could control: exactly how much he would tell St. James.

 

It seemed important.

 

“Well, that would have almost been too much luck,” Jesse had mused, continuing to pace as Kurt exhaled his tension. “You must keep me abreast of matters. Puckerman is your contact. When you need to get information to me or need anything at all, you go to him. That shouldn't be too hard, my people tell me that Lady Amelia visits his shop quite frequently. You'll be expected to accompany her.”

 

“Fine.” Kurt had elected then to also keep back the information that he would be moving into Dalton House within the next month. There would be time to reveal that to St. James as well. It was nothing the Steward needed to know immediately. More information, more control.

 

To his great relief, the Steward had left then to go have dinner. The two of them had been careful to avoid being seen together since that first night in Oxford – it wouldn't do to have anyone link them together and then trace it back to Huntingdon, potentially spoiling Jesse's plan. This suited Kurt just fine. He liked being able to ramble through the town, finding his own places to go and things to do. He didn't imagine he'd have much free time, but at least he had ideas for how to spend it if it did come along.

 

And of course, it was always a bonus to not be within five yards of Jesse St. James. It was like Christmas all over again, really.

 

They hadn't seen each other again, in fact, until the next morning. St. James had come to Kurt's room as he was packing the last of his things. “Your carriage is waiting to take you to Crawford,” the Steward had begun, his steady cold gaze locked onto Kurt's. “Remember – you must keep me informed of everything. I can be ready to move my men into place at any time. And if I even _suspect_ something is out of order, remember that I have your father within arm's reach.”

 

Kurt swallowed. “Understood.”

 

“Good.” They stood looking at each other for long moments, each man taking the measure of the other for the four thousandth time in their lifetimes and still coming up with nothing they liked seeing. “I suppose this is goodbye, then,” St. James shrugged, expressionless.

 

“I suppose so.” 

 

When Kurt said nothing more, Jesse headed for the doorway. “Remember, I can have your father killed with a snap of my fingers.”

 

“If I hadn't met your lovely sainted mother,” Kurt had countered, “I'd swear that you were the son of a whore.”

 

And those had been the last words Kurt and St. James exchanged before he had the carriage loaded with his things and traveled to Crawford. It was, Kurt thought, as appropriate a farewell as one could expect between the two of them.

 

The Frevilles seemed nice enough, he decided. Lord Crawford was an imposing man, clearly a battle veteran who had worked very hard to earn his place in the world. Yet he was kind, and obviously loved all of his daughters. If he resented not having a son, it didn't show.

 

Lady Crawford was also quite kind, as were her younger daughters – Kurt couldn't remember their names just yet – but they kept their distance from him and seemed to blend together, the same blonde hair and delicate features, quiet demeanors and no real interest in music. They made polite conversation upon his arrival, but then dispersed, leaving Lady Amelia to settle him in.

 

It became very clear within a very short time that Kurt was here strictly for Lady Amelia, and therefore he was her responsibility. He didn't mind at all - he rather liked the young lady a great deal, for all that she was nothing like any well-born woman he'd ever encountered, which was actually the primary reason he did like her. It was as if she'd learned what the words “deferential” and “quiet” meant and then decided she wanted nothing to do with them whatsoever. Kurt found this to be utterly charming and, for the first time in months, he found a ray of sunshine in the murky clouds of his complicated life.

 

Within seconds of directing the footmen to his new quarters, Amelia had seized him by the arm and dragged him off to a sitting room to talk. “Tell me everything about yourself,” she had invited, perching on the edge of the wing chair she'd taken immediately after depositing him into one of his own. “Don't leave out anything at all.”

 

For one insane moment he contemplated doing exactly as she instructed, wondering what her reaction would be to know that he was here to seduce and ruin her childhood friend and confidante. Would she be horrified? Oh, probably. And he'd seen enough of the byplay between herself and Anderson to know that she wasn't afraid of physical confrontation. All things considered, it was best to stick to the cover story.

 

“There's not much to tell,” he temporized, trying to buy time as he organized his thoughts. “My name is Florian. I sing and give lessons in vocal performance.”

 

“But what do you like?” Amelia was leaning forward, her eyes wide and eager and curious. He found himself admiring her sheer prettiness – she wore it unselfconsciously, as if it were no more remarkable than the slippers on her feet. She had no pretensions or artifice; what you saw with her was what you got. “Do you read? Do you enjoy going for walks? Do you like cider?” She frowned at the tray being brought in by a kitchen maid. “I didn't think to ask. I suppose I could request ale, if you prefer.”

 

“Cider is fine.” He couldn't help but smile at her. After the last three months with Jesse St. James, Amelia Freville was a beacon of hope and sweetness. “I do enjoy reading and walking. Music, of course. And I like horseback riding as well.” He thought wistfully of his father at that, swallowing back a lump of sadness. Amelia watched him with curiosity.

 

“You're far away,” she finally stated, pouring a cup of cider and passing it to him.”What are you thinking about?”

 

“Riding a horse,” he'd admitted. He hadn't been on a horse since this endeavor began, not having had time for it at all between lessons and fittings. And once he'd left Wales, all of his transport had been in a carriage or on his own two feet. “It's been some time. I miss it.”

 

“We shall have to go out sometime very soon, then,” Amelia had then decided. “I can send a messenger to Dalton and Blaine can join us! Would you like that?”

 

Quite the loaded question, that was. Kurt had made some sort of noncommittal noise of potential agreement and excused himself as swiftly as he possibly could without offending his employer's daughter.

 

The problem was that, all unexpected, his accidental encounter with the Viscount on the staircase the day prior had left him severely conflicted. He hadn't at all been prepared for the object of his mission to be quite so...well, adorable, really, was the only word for it. Kurt had had an image in his mind of a sort of younger version of Lord Huntingdon, tall, strapping, hair pulled back into a no-nonsense queue, clad in the plainest clothing a man of his station could be permitted to get away with.

 

He had never expected a charmingly awkward young man with a mop of dark curls and surprised hazel eyes who tripped over his words and blushed with the ease of a young girl. It made it rather difficult to hate him – and Kurt  _wanted_ to hate him, so much. Here was the indirect cause of Kurt's entire world collapsing, right in front of him, unknowingly waiting to be ruined himself. He felt that he  _should_ hate him, that it would make getting his job done quickly that much easier. That he should want to ruin the Viscount's life in retaliation for the ruination of his own.

 

But not very deep down, Kurt knew that this entire mess wasn't really Blaine Anderson's fault. He couldn't blame someone simply for existing, couldn't blame someone who didn't even know who Jesse St. James was for that man's actions. He simply did not have it in himself to hate someone who didn't even know why Kurt was angry at him.

 

Especially not when that someone was clearly kindhearted, protective of their loved ones, extremely attractive and very, very endearing in their awkwardness. For God's sake, he'd literally almost run into the door.

 

With a groan, Kurt rolled on his side to face the wall of the room. How, he wondered, does one go from not noticing men at all in any way to suddenly being attracted to any good-looking young nobleman who said boo to him? Because he could not deny that he was at the very least intrigued by the Viscount Dalton, not as strongly as he was attracted to the Earl of Hudson, but definitely there was interest present.

 

 _Was_ it their noble birth? He turned this over in his mind and quickly discarded it. No, that had to be a coincidence. Kurt had never given a damn for class and station. He'd been happy enough doing his work and looking after his father. They had a good life, a hard-working one to be sure, but Kurt had never been ashamed of that. He'd had no ambitions to move up from where life had placed him, and the only reason he was here now was to save his father, not to elevate himself. So, no. It wasn't that.

 

It wasn't just their looks, either, he knew. In his line of work, his true line, he had met many men of various degrees of attractiveness. If he were being objective, he could even honestly admit that Jesse St. James was one of the most damnably beautiful men he'd ever seen, with his blue eyes, fallen angel's face, waves of tumbling golden brown hair that always looked as if he'd just been intimate with someone - which Kurt, of course, was in the unwelcome position of knowing was highly likely to have occurred at any time – and a leanly muscled physique that he made sure to clothe well.

 

But St. James was also one of the most despicable men to walk the earth, and that was  _not_ attractive, not at all, whereas both the Earl of Hudson and Viscount Dalton were handsome and had been kind to him.  _Was that the secret, then?_ Kurt wondered. Most people hadn't really noticed him, had just seen him as a boy to saddle their horses. The two noblemen had actively acknowledged his existence and indicated, in some way, that it  _mattered_ .

 

He sighed and rolled back. What was the point of thinking himself to death over either man? The Earl of Hudson was well out of his reach both figuratively and literally. As for Viscount Dalton, at least there was the possibility of mutual interest if St. James' intelligence was accurate - yet there was absolutely no point in allowing himself to consider the man as anything but the object of a mission he needed to execute. Attraction to the man would make it easier to get the job done, might even make it a less detestable task, but he had to be so careful not to let that attraction pass a certain threshold or he would jeopardize the life of his father.

 

Nothing was worth that at all.

 

 _Still_ , Kurt thought, licking his lips as he remembered the feel of Blaine's hand in his on the staircase, the warmth and the softness and the way their palms fit together.  _Still, he_ _**is** _ _ so very good looking... _

 

Until St. James had turned his world upside down, Kurt had shared a room off of Raglan's stables with his father, an arrangement that hadn't been a problem until he realized his attraction to the Earl of Hudson. Then, it became almost torture, as he would find himself dreaming of the man and would wake up in a fog of confusion and lust, his cock standing at rigid attention. He would have to wait for his father to leave the room to prepare for the day before he could even manage to get out of bed and dress – having time or privacy to relieve his arousal was completely out of the question.

 

Then he had moved into his own room in the castle. The morning he'd woken up and realized he had all the privacy he'd ever wanted in moments like this, he'd felt like a starving man at a banquet. In the hours before he had to go to break his fast, he brought himself off over and over until his hand was exhausted and it hurt to get dressed.

 

Chafed and sensitive, he'd found it difficult to walk for the next three days. Limits, Kurt suddenly realized, existed for a reason. He had managed to confine himself then to a once a day schedule – but tonight, his blood running high from the events of the day, his near-total freedom from Jesse St. James, and wondering what it was going to be like the first time he wound his fingers into the curls of Blaine Anderson's hair and pulled him in for a kiss...

 

...he was going to have trouble getting around comfortably on the morrow. He didn't care.

 

Kurt glanced out of the small window in his new chamber. The moon was high, the stars bright. It was late enough that everyone was surely asleep, and his thoughts of Blaine Anderson were steadily progressing from kissing to wondering what the Viscount looked like unclothed.

 

He worked very hard every day to avoid remembering that he was being manipulated and blackmailed into doing this at all. There would be time for anger and shame later – the stakes were too high to give in to those feelings now. For now, he concentrated on his pleasure and on his gratitude that the stars had aligned enough to make Blaine Anderson an almost unfairly handsome man. That would make his task much easier, Kurt thought.

 

As long as he remembered that this was a job. Already he was realizing that by laying in bed and fantasizing about Blaine, the lines were blurring. It was much too easy to figure out what he might want to do to the other man when the opportunity arose. Perhaps walking in on St. James had done some good after all – no. His blood ran cold at the idea.

 

Closing his eyes, Kurt shoved the unwelcome thoughts away with an effort, focusing back on Blaine as he let his hand creep up under his doublet, untie one of the sets of laces on his there, and slip beneath the waist of his hose. He couldn't believe that a mere handful of months ago he was fumbling with embarrassment, unable to reconcile his natural shyness with the thoughts he was having about men he hardly knew. Oh, how things can change, he thought, a smile curling his mouth as he wrapped his fingers around himself and squeezed, finding his preferred rhythm immediately.

 

He was already half-hard imagining what Blaine might sound like when they kissed for the first time. A few firm, yet gentle strokes brought him fully erect, especially when he remembered that kissing was absolutely not the only thing he could do with his mouth. Soft gasps escaped as he wondered what he wanted to do first – find out what Blaine tasted like, or have Blaine find out what _he_ tasted like?

 

The mental image of Blaine using his mouth on Kurt made him go even harder, something he hadn't thought possible. He felt his hips arch upward, forcing the warm, velvety heft of his cock through his hand's tightening grip. He'd watched himself in a mirror once, an occurrence that had flushed his skin a rosy pink _all_ over, and he remembered seeing his eyes grow wide and darken to mossy green as his arousal grew – did Blaine's do the same, darkening to a warm chocolate brown? Or would they lighten, turning the liquid color of honey in the sunshine when Kurt dragged his tongue up the length of the other man's shaft, when he licked away the first droplets of fluid at the head, when he opened his mouth and let his mouth envelop as much of Blaine's length as he could...

 

What sounds, Kurt wondered, would Blaine make then?

 

Lost in a cloud of desire as he worked himself to climax, it took several minutes for Kurt to actually hear the tapping at his door. He froze, erection almost immediately disappearing as he yanked his hand out of his hose and sat bolt upright. Who could possibly be at his door at this hour?

 

“Florian?” The whisper was thin, almost ghost-like – but immediately recognizable.

 

 _Amelia_ , he realized, slumping over with a frown. It was the middle of the night! Not to mention that she had interrupted a very personal time, he grumbled to himself. It would be almost enough to make him yank open the door and shout at her, if he didn't actually already like her so much. And it wasn't really her fault that she'd disturbed him, she could hardly be expected to know what he'd gotten up to. He sighed. Sometimes, he found it much too easy to give nice people the benefit of the doubt.

 

Swinging his legs down, Kurt made his way to the door as noiselessly as he was able, given that he was still in his boots. He opened it only a crack. That was enough to see the girl standing in the corridor, wrapped in a heavy robe and carrying a candle. “Lady Amelia? Is something wrong?”

 

She shook her head. “No. I just wondered...” Her lips pursed. “Are you...that is to say...clothing...”

 

Kurt pulled the door all the way open to reveal that he was still fully dressed. “Yes. Did you need me?”

 

“I do, yes.” Amelia's smile was sweet, a mingling of anticipation and simple joy. She peered into the room. “Do you know, I've never been in these chambers?”

 

“Lady Amelia...”

 

“Isn't it funny? To know there's an entire suite of rooms in my home that I've never seen? Curious.” She raised her candle up to better illuminate the walls. “Of course, it looks like most of the other rooms here.”

 

“Lady Amelia.” At Kurt's firm tone, the girl pulled back and gazed at him inquiringly. “With all due respect, it's quite late. May I be of assistance?”

 

“Oh! Yes!” She gestured to his feet. “Do you have very heavy socks, or slippers?”

 

He was mystified. “...Yes?”

 

“Put them on and come with me. Please.” Amelia smiled again, clutching at her candlestick. “I want to do something.”

 

Despite his confusion, Kurt nonetheless found himself complying. “What are we doing?”

 

“You'll see.” And she refused to explain anything more, pressing her lips together and shaking her head when he tried to get more information. “If you have a robe, bring it as well. We're not going outside, but it's still quite cold.”

 

He pulled his boots off and exchanged them for leather slippers that had been lined with sheep's wool. Amelia was off and moving down the corridor already as he got to his feet, leaving Kurt to grab his robe and scramble to catch up. “Do you do this every night, with all your music teachers?”

 

She beamed a smile over her shoulder as she pushed open the door to the music library – they hadn't come far, then, this was just a few doors down from his own room. “No. Just you. Come in.” After he'd slipped inside, she closed the door firmly behind them and took his hand.

 

The room was dark, no lamps lit. The only sources of light in the room were Amelia's candle and the glow of the banked fire in the fireplace. Amelia led him over to the hearth and settled down on the rug there, pulling him down after her. “Why are we here?” he asked, confused. “Aren't we going to be in here quite often anyway? During more conventional hours?”

 

“Well, yes.” She shrugged and dipped into the pockets of her robe, pulling out a handful of chestnuts and a pair of apples. “But don't you think it's fun to be somewhere you're not supposed to be, doing something you're not supposed to be doing?”

 

Thinking back to what she'd interrupted, Kurt's response could only be a wry, “Well, yes, I might be acquainted with the feeling.”

 

Amelia put the nuts into a small metal basket and placed it over the smoldering logs, handing Kurt one of the apples as she took a bite of her own. “I like night picnics. I often come here with a book and read by candlelight for a while.”

 

“Why here?” He looked around. “You must spend a lot of time in here as it is.”

 

“Exactly. I like it in here. None of my sisters nor Papa or Mother are terribly interested in music, so this room is essentially mine, and mine alone. I'm going to miss it when we go to Dalton,” she sighed. “But that's all right, Blaine has a lovely music library of his own.”

 

“He mentioned that. And you said he also enjoys music?” Kurt tried to keep the question casual, but the odd little smile Amelia gave him made him think he hadn't succeeded as well as he would have liked.

 

“Yes. He sings, mostly, but he can play the lute as well. It's something he taught himself when he was younger. I don't know enough to know if he's good at it,” she shrugged, “but he likes to play it when he's thinking of difficult things and making hard decisions.” Reaching under the nearby harpsichord, she groped around and retrieved a flagon of cider that she'd clearly hidden there. “Here. I don't have cups. We'll have to just drink from the flask.” With a smile, she threw back a gulp and passed the vessel to him.

 

“If you usually do this alone, why did you come get me?” Kurt swallowed a mouthful of his own, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with a fold of his robe when he spilled a bit. 

 

“Because you've been tense and sad all day. I thought maybe a bit of silliness before we got to work might be relaxing. You practically ran away from me this afternoon, and we didn't get to talk over dinner.”

 

Kurt's eyebrow quirked upward at her perceptiveness. “I see.”

 

“Besides, you hardly ate. So.” Amelia gestured to the apple in his hand until he took a bite. “Florian, why are you sad?”

 

She was direct. Kurt bit down on the apple in his mouth, missing his tongue by a narrow margin. He chewed the bite quite thoroughly as he thought of how to answer her. “I miss my father. He was ill last year and he works too hard. I had to leave him to come here.”

 

“Oh. Where is he?”

 

Kurt and St. James had discussed his cover story, and decided for the sake of easy remembrance that he should stick somewhat closely to his own life, only making up a few details and obfuscating things when necessary. “In Wales. He works for a Baron there, in the stables.”

 

“That's how you know how to ride,” she realized, taking back the flask so that she could drink a bit more cider. “How did you come to music, then?”

 

“The Baron heard me singing and felt that my voice should not be wasted.” This was close enough to the truth, Kurt thought, fighting to keep a cynical tone out of his voice. “He liked my father, and so he was kind enough to give me the opportunity to learn. I sang for him for many years until he died. Then his son inherited the land and title, but had no interest in keeping me on.” He let out a sigh. “So, I had to strike out on my own.”

 

Amelia's eyes were shiny with sympathetic tears. “You've had to leave all you ever knew.”

 

“Yes.” Kurt swallowed back tears of his own. “And my father. I worry about him, but he's stubborn. He really insisted that I leave.” Also more or less the truth. “If I didn't go, I'd have to work in the stables again, and he felt I'd worked much too hard to go back to that.”

 

He was surprised at how much he was talking, how he really was so much more relaxed than he had been earlier in the day. Perhaps Amelia was on to something with her night picnics. Something about the darkness of the room and the coziness of sharing a late night snack had him opening up. Even if most of what he said wasn't true, it was still more than he'd talked to anyone in months. He felt better despite the very real secrets he was still holding inside.

 

It felt like Kurt had a friend. He'd never had one before. It was an odd but not unpleasant feeling.

 

The chestnuts popped in their basket, causing Amelia to reach back and pull them off of the fire. She dumped them onto the hearth. “We'll let them cool. I've never enjoyed burning my fingers.” With a smile, she bit back into her apple. “What do you think of Blaine?”

 

Kurt had been in the middle of taking another drink. Only very great control kept him from spitting it all over her in a burst of indignity. “Sorry, what?”

 

“What do you think of Blaine?” Her tone was somehow both patient and amused. “We will be living there after all, and he is my dearest friend. I really must insist that the two of you get along.”

 

“That's...fair.” _I think that I both wish your dearest friend to the most distant ends of the earth, and also to writhe beneath me while I kiss him mindless._ Kurt was fairly sure, however, that if he voiced those thoughts, then he would get himself into an awful lot of trouble. “He seems nice?”

 

“Are you not sure?” She was grinning with unabashed mischief in the candlelight. “I can assure you that he is actually quite nice, if you wanted to know. And isn't he handsome?”

 

Kurt felt his eyebrow quirk up yet again. “I suppose. Do  _you_ think so? Perhaps the two of you really  _should_ get married, if you think he's so nice and handsome.”

 

“Oh, no, it would never work.” Amelia shook her head and opened her eyes wide, contriving to look innocent. Kurt wondered why, until she spoke again. “I mean, quite apart from the fact that he's like my brother, and Papa wouldn't want me to marry anyone less than another Earl, I can tell you with confidence that Blaine would rather kiss you than me.”

 

He was really going to have to stop drinking when he sensed Amelia was about to talk. One of these times when she let fly with something like that, Kurt was either going to choke or make a disgusting mess. “Excuse me?”

 

“Normally I would never tell anyone anything like that, as it's rather personal information,” Amelia went on as blithely as if she were discussing the fact that the sky was blue and the rug beneath them was wool. “Especially since you and I don't know each other at all. But we'll be at Dalton very soon, Florian, and Blaine has done me a very great favor in taking me in. I would like to repay that favor. Therefore, I'm telling you that I'm quite certain that he liked you the second you met, and so if you're at all inclined that way, then there is possibility.”

 

Kurt had gone from a life of quiet solitude and simplicity to one that was fraught with complications and emotional turmoil in a very, very short amount of time. As if he wasn't under enough pressure from Jesse St. James, now Amelia had just dumped this into his lap. Not that it was unwelcome information, really. 

 

It was only that it was both welcome and helpful and it made him feel like the worst person in the world, because as much as he thought he might want to reciprocate, he could only do so as far as it would get him to complete his mission. For his father. He could not afford more than the interest required to save his father's life.

 

He thought it was monstrously unfair that the universe should contrive to make him want more out of a situation that could never, ever allow it. This was growing more complicated by the minute, and it had really only just begun. Kurt's head spun with too many thoughts and feelings. Amelia simply sat watching him, waiting for a response. 

 

“Why are you telling me this? The real reason?” Kurt heard the rasping edge of fear in his voice and coughed to clear it out. “You said yourself, we don't know each other, that's very personal information about your dearest friend to just put in my hands.”

 

“I meant what I said, Florian.” She picked up a warm chestnut, handing it to him and retrieving one for herself. “Blaine has given up a lot in the last several years for his aunt, for his country, and for me. And now he's taking me in and saving me from a marriage of convenience to someone I don't know who might die in the upcoming war. He's the kindest and most generous person I know. He deserves to be as happy as he makes everyone around him.”

 

“And you think I might be able to do that for him?” _Oh you poor, misguided darling,_ he thought with wretched sadness. _All I can do for your friend is ruin his life, and you're making me wish more and more that I didn't have to..._

 

“I thought I might at least try.” She peeled her chestnut. “Didn't you like him at all? And I suppose I really ought to ask if you're inclined that way yourself.” She looked up, enormous blue eyes stricken. “Oh, dear. I think I might have been presumptuous.”

 

“You were,” he laughed sadly, “but you were accurate.” It was the first time he'd ever actually admitted to it out loud. There was a freedom in it that he hadn't expected. “And yes. I find Blaine attractive.”

 

“Good.” Amelia's voice was bright with satisfaction. “I can help you with him, if you like. I know everything about him.”

 

Kurt, however, was thinking back to something else she'd said that had captured his curiosity. “Lady Amelia - ”

 

“Oh, really, at this point I think you can call me simply Amelia.” She was smiling. “Do you want me to help?”

 

“No, Amelia, wait. Can we go back for a moment – what war?”

 

She shrugged. “I don't know much about that. Just that there's one coming. Blaine knows about it, he and Papa frequently meet to discuss it. But they don't tell me anything.” She popped her chestnut into her mouth, washing it down with a gulp of cider. She appeared completely oblivious to the storm of confusion she'd just unleashed on Kurt.

 

 _There's a war coming. That's more than I knew until now,_ he realized, pieces falling into place like tumblers in a lock. Despite St. James' refusal to give Kurt specific information, he'd let enough things carelessly slip that Kurt was, with the help of this last piece of intelligence, able to put together a sketchy mental picture of what was going on. Somehow, he was certain, his mission was related to this impending war, which he didn't like at all. Worse, the mission involved ruining the life of an apparently good man about whom he already had more feelings than was strictly wise.

 

Kurt Hummel was just an unimportant, over-clever stableman. He'd spent his entire life doing nothing but tending horses and looking after his father. Now chance had conspired against him so that both his father's life and the future of England rested heavy on his shoulders.

 

All he had to do was ruin Blaine's life – which perforce would hurt Amelia. Neither should matter. He didn't know either of them very well, so this shouldn't be so complicated. Get in, do his job, get out. Save his father, save England, never have to face either Viscount Dalton or Amelia Freville ever again.

 

But Kurt wasn't a heartless person. He wasn't  _Jesse_ . Jesse could manage this job with no remorse. Kurt could not. With each passing moment he became more entangled in the lives of these people, no matter how hard he tried to keep his distance.

 

All he had wanted to do was save his father, but the seemingly simple way of doing so was all of a sudden not simple at all, and Kurt wondered with a sudden stab of despair how – if – he could ever manage it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued thanks and love to MotherGoddamn for her beta awesomeness. And so, so much love for the feedback I've gotten, it's been really splendid. Remember, you can play with me on Tumblr (glass-parade) or, if you prefer reading story updates on LJ, that's an option too (a_glass_parade)! Thank you for sticking with me. I promise this chapter is extremely relevant and important to the plot.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia is in trouble for being indiscreet; Blaine and Kurt are in trouble because they can't stop finding each other to be far too attractive for safety.

“You told him  _what_?”

  
Blaine had traveled to Crawford Keep to finalize the arrangements for Amelia's move to Dalton, and having completed this had sought out Amelia to chat. Unfortunately, what she'd just told him had him reeling in shock and reconsidering the entire endeavor. 

  
“ I told him that you liked him,” Amelia replied calmly, embroidering a pair of dancing slippers as if she hadn't just confessed to revealing a secret that could ruin his life. It was obvious that she did not see anything at all wrong with what she'd done.

  
He shoved his fingers into his hair and pulled hard, aghast at what he was hearing. “Amelia. What exactly gave you the idea that you had any right at all to do that?” 

  
“Well, it's true, isn't it?” She looked up, eyes wide and clear. “I'm not blind, you know.”

  
“That's not the point!” Blaine felt his teeth grinding as he resisted the urge to yank Amelia to her feet and shake her. “Just because you have changed your attitude about my preferences doesn't mean everyone else has done so!”

  
Amelia glared. “I know  _that_ . That's why I didn't tell  _everyone_ , Blaine. I told Florian. One person.”

  
Interesting that she was already calling the man by his name, rather than addressing him as 'Master Renner.' She'd never reached that level of informality with any other tutor. “One person we don't even know, Amelia!” 

  
“One person who  _likes you_ , Blaine! He's not a bad man, I know it!”

  
Blaine was fairly certain that he was going to strangle Amelia, which was really quite a shame because up until now she'd been an absolutely delightful friend to have. “I repeat. We do  _not_  know him. I agreed to take Master Renner in with you because I knew it would make you happy. Even though you don't at all  _require_  music lessons at this point.” He stopped to take a deep, calming breath before continuing. “I did this as a favor to you – and you repay me by revealing my most important secret to a person  _I do not know_ , a person your father hired on the basis of the recommendation of a shopkeeper.”

  
That he also was drawn to the man in question was irrelevant, Blaine told himself firmly. 

  
“You said yourself, we trust Noah - ”

 

“For music! We don't socialize with the man, Amelia, we have no earthly idea who he might think is a decent person or a terrible one! We don't know anything at all about Master Renner apart from what was in that letter. You didn't  _think_.” Blaine tried to tell himself he was overreacting. Amelia didn't know the full reasoning behind his frequent meetings with her father. She had no idea how dangerous it was that she'd talked about his socially unacceptable leanings to someone they didn't know.

  
He was tired and tense from all of the planning; he and Lord Crawford had finally hammered out a timetable for Blaine to discuss the impending war with his peers, but it had taken many weeks and heated discussions to do so. On top of that had been getting Dalton House ready for Amelia and her entourage, which had required mediation between Emma and Wes on far too many occasions for Blaine's liking. His nerves and paranoia were already running high, then he'd woken up today to realize that he had agreed to take a perfect stranger into his home at a politically difficult time and he hadn't even had anyone look into his background, he'd been too preoccupied for it to even occur to him – and then Amelia dropped this on his head. 

  
Beyond all of that, there was his disruptive, inconvenient, puzzling and sudden lust for the very man he and Amelia were discussing. That didn't help matters in the slightest. Blaine heaved a weighty sigh and tried again to cool his fury.  _She didn't know. She meant well. I think. It -_

  
A sniffle interrupted his train of thought.

  
Blaine cast a wary glance at Amelia. When she got upset, she could go one of two ways: either she was going to slap him, or she was going to cry. 

  
_Oh, damn_ . He really, really sort of wished she'd gone for the slapping option.

  
“ I...was...I wanted...” Hiccups disrupted Amelia's ability to form complete sentences as tears trickled down her cheeks. “You're so  _alone_.”

  
“ And I didn't have a problem with that, Amelia.” Blaine closed his eyes and tried to explain. “I suppose...I suppose there's so much I didn't end up telling you about my decision to remain alone and unmarried. I was so angry about having to make the decision at all...” He trailed off, remembering how bitter and furious he'd been then, just sixteen and so certain in his belief that it shouldn't matter to anyone  _who_  he loved, only to be told that it  _did_. “I cannot truly fault you for not understanding.”

  
That did not mean that he wasn't still worried about the ramifications of what Amelia had done, and he knew she knew it. She looked up at him. “Please, Blaine. Please don't send him away. He's a good person, I'm certain of it. He needs a place to be. I want a music teacher. And I don't care what you say, you may accept being alone but I know you don't like it.” 

  
“ Amelia...”

  
“No, listen, please.” Amelia wiped her nose with the sleeve of her gown – Blaine winced at that, her mother would have a  _fit_  if she knew – and looked at him. “You have given so much. Can you please, please let something be given back to you? Even if it's only a chance?”

  
“It's dangerous. Amelia, you don't even know how dangerous it is, and I can't tell you.” But his resolve was weakening. She wanted to so much to repay him for what he was doing for her. And Florian was much too distractingly beautiful to ignore.

  
Apart from that, now that the other man knew his secret, Blaine literally  _couldn't_  send him away. He couldn't have that sort of potential for disaster just wandering the countryside. Not now, not at such a potentially volatile time. He needed to keep Florian where the man could be watched carefully just in case he  _was_  more than he seemed. They would be surrounded by people Blaine trusted implicitly, people who would protect him against any attack.

  
If anything happened between the two men while cohabiting under Dalton's roof, well. Stranger things had been known to occur. Blaine winced at how much he wanted to justify keeping Florian close by, for reasons that went beyond the logical. 

  
He looked hard at Amelia. “You realize I am putting a very great deal of trust in your certainty that Master Renner is a good man.” 

  
“He wouldn't hurt anyone, Blaine. I'm sure of it. He's so far from home and his father and everything he knows.”

  
Which was why Amelia related so closely to the man, he knew, and part of why she would be blind to the admittedly faint possibility that there was more to him than just a sad, lonely wandering performer. And Blaine didn't want to fault her for her innate kindness and willingness to see the good in everyone. 

  
Yes. He was being paranoid, and he was overreacting. Not without cause, no, but even so. This could be managed. It wasn't the end of the world. He would forgive Amelia, he'd keep a very close eye on Florian, and it would all be perfectly fine. 

  
Besides, now that he knew that his interest in Florian was mutual, it was going to be that much easier to – all right, perhaps he shouldn't be traveling down that mental path with Amelia sitting  _right there._

  
“ We are going to have to talk about your lack of discretion later, Amelia,” Blaine informed her, raising his hand to ward off her protests. “We really are. It's my fault that you have no idea how dangerous it was that you just told Master Renner about me – but honestly, love, you shouldn't have in the first place. It was my place to tell him, not you. I know you meant well, but the information is mine to distribute. Not yours.”

  
“You would never have spoken to him about it,” Amelia muttered, wiping her eyes. “I  _know_  you.”

  
_Yes, but you're not entirely clear on just how attractive I find this man to be... “_ Be that as it may, it was still my information and would have been my decision.” He looked out of the window, realizing that it was getting late. He had to go. “I forgive you, 'Melia. But I'm still not happy with you.”

  
“What are you going to do?” She bit her lip as she looked up at him, and it was clear that she was fully expecting the worst.

  
“Nothing.” Blaine shook his head. “I've finalized everything with your father this afternoon. It's too late to change the plans for you to move in, not that I seriously want to change them anyway. And I won't send him away. Nothing changes. I'll see you in a few days when you move in. All right?”

  
The relief on Amelia's face went a long way towards making Blaine feel better. He never had liked arguing with anyone, but when it was Amelia he felt especially terrible. “Thank you, Blaine,” she breathed, setting aside her sewing and getting up to run over and throw her arms around him. “I'm sorry. I really didn't know. You do know I just wanted to help make you happy?” 

  
“I do,” he sighed, returning the embrace. “You are very lucky that you're too good a person to stay angry at for long.”

  
“I'm very lucky that you're too good a person to stay angry at me for long,” she corrected, leaning back to smile at him.

  
Blaine pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I must get back to Dalton. By now I'm sure Aunt Alice has exhausted her ability to keep Wes and Emma from each other's throats.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really do hope you appreciate what I'm doing, Amelia. My steward and my housekeeper may do me in.” 

  
“It will all be fine,” Amelia giggled as she tried to reassure him. “Emma likes things to be clean, Wes likes to be economically sensible. I'm sure you can find a middle ground.”

  
“I certainly hope so, else I may be forced to move us all to France. Without them.”

  
“David would never let you leave without Wes.” She returned to her seat and picked her work back up. “Now, go, or you'll never get home before dinner.”

  
“Indeed.” With a bow of farewell, Blaine excused himself and headed for the rear entrance of the keep that gave easy access to the stables. It was customary for one to depart the front entrance and allow a footman to arrange for his horse to be brought, but Blaine had been coming to Crawford for long enough that he enjoyed a certain amount of autonomy when it came to moving around the keep. He slipped through the door and crossed the cobblestones to the stables, where a wave to the master there was all that he needed to gain entrance.

  
His little fawn colored palfrey had been placed in her usual stall near the doors, so it was no great matter for Blaine to locate her. It was a surprise, however, to find Florian in the stall with Melody, rubbing her nose and talking softly into her ear. They hadn't set eyes on each other in the weeks since the singer came to Crawford, and Blaine was startled at how the uncurling warmth of arousal was as strong today as it had been then. 

  
“Excuse me?”

  
The other man jumped in surprise, pressing himself back against the wall. He stared at Blaine with those fascinating eyes of his, which Blaine absently noted were green, now. Hadn't they been blue when they met? 

  
It was incredible, Blaine marveled, how quickly he forgot every reason he'd thought he had to be wary of the man the instant he was in his presence. Blood rushed away from his brain, carrying with it all rational thought. 

  
“I'm sorry,” Florian gasped, cheeks pink with embarrassment. “Is she yours? I didn't know.”

  
“Yes, she belongs to me.” Blaine stepped forward and scratched behind the horse's ear. “You weren't hurting her. It's fine.”

  
The other man pushed himself up off of the wall and moved to stand at Melody's other side. “Does she have a name?” 

  
“Yes. Melody.” Blaine smiled. “Amelia named her. Of course. If I'd had my way it would have been something dull like 'Horse' or worse.” His smile broadened into a grin. “Sometimes I still just call her 'Horse.' Don't tell Amelia.”

  
“On my honor,” Florian agreed, returning a shy smile. “She's a lovely animal.”

  
“Thank you.” Blaine knew the wise course of action would be to saddle Melody up and go, yet he couldn't bear to relinquish the first opportunity he'd had to be in Florian's company since their initial meeting. Inane chatter made him want to crawl under a rock and die, but it was the best he could do. So - “Do you like horses?”

  
“My father tends stables,” was the surprising reply. “I worked with him until I was given the opportunity to go into music. But I still like to visit a stable sometimes when I'm feeling...” He seemed to pause to think for a moment before finishing up with, “...a long way from home.”

  
That explained the calloused hands, Blaine realized. Not to mention the well-defined backside. And the strong forearms he'd just noticed emerging from the rolled back sleeves of Florian's cream linen shirt. Noticed, he told himself, only noticed. He was  _not_  admiring them. Much. Picking up Melody's reins, he led her out of the stall and into the stableyard. “You are accomplished in markedly diverse fields, Master Renner.”

  
“So says the singing liege-lord,” Florian retorted in a teasing tone as he strolled alongside. “We all have things we love to do, some of us are just...” He trailed off and coughed slightly before continuing with a new note of slight bitterness. “...fortunate. In that our pastimes can become our livelihoods.”

  
Blaine wondered what had made the man suddenly angry, but decided not to pursue it. “Well, if you're used to saddling a horse, you could help me with Melody here.” He did not mention that he was perfectly capable of saddling his own mount and that he was only doing this to watch Florian's arms as they handled the leather, the muscles flexing and clenching as he lifted the heavy saddle and cinched its straps around the barrel of Melody's torso. “If you like, that is. Obviously it's not required.” 

  
An indecipherable look seemed to flash through Florian's eyes before he broke into a smile and nodded. “I don't mind at all. It's been a while. I hope I still remember how.” He strolled over to where Crawford's men had draped Melody's saddle over a rack. “I hope I can still  _lift_  it.”

 

Blaine's mouth went dry as Florian hefted the heavy saddle with relative ease and carried it over to drape over Melody's back. His arms were  _exactly_ as incredible as Blaine had imagined. He sidled over so that he and the singer were on the same side of the palfrey. “You, ah, you don't seem to be having a problem.”

 

Florian glanced over at him with a smile. “No, thank goodness. Turns out a few mo – years break from doing something doesn't entirely erase one's ability to do it.” He leaned down to secure the saddle girth, causing Blaine to bite his lip at the sight of that really unfairly magnificent rear end. He'd almost forgotten what it looked like. 

 

Oh, all right. That was a total lie. He hadn't forgotten at all. A stupid grin spread across his face, one he had to hurriedly wipe off when Florian straightened up and gazed at him. “There. That's finished.” The singer's face took on a slightly wistful expression. “This is going to sound peculiar...but thank you for that. I...” He took a deep breath. “I miss my father. In a very odd way, that felt a bit like being home again.” 

 

Blaine nodded as if he understood. Maybe he did, a very slight bit. “And I thank you in return. It was kind of you to do it, though it's beneath your station now.”

 

“I've never given much thought to class or station,” Florian shrugged. “It's something I can do and that I enjoy doing. As I said, it was really something of a favor from you to me.” He glanced down at his boots and licked his lips, cheeks turning pink before he looked back up, gazing boldly into Blaine's eyes. “I shall have to repay it, sometime.”

 

_I have some suggestions,_  Blaine managed not to say. “It's not a problem, honestly.” They lingered a few moments longer, Blaine still unwilling to give up this brief moment of contact. “You can saddle my mount any time.”

 

When Florian's eyebrow tilted up in amusement, Blaine realized that what he'd said could be taken in any number of inappropriate ways, and he groaned. Now he couldn't get away fast enough. “I believe I'll just be going, now.” He reached up and grabbed the pommel of the saddle. 

 

“Wait. I'll give you a hand up.” Florian leaned down slightly and held his hand out. “Step up.”

 

Blaine swallowed and lifted his right boot, placing his foot in the other man's hand. Florian nodded and secured his hand around his ankle, gripping firmly. 

 

Even through thick leather and hose, Blaine would swear he could feel the warmth of the other man's fingers. 

 

“On the count of three?” Florian looked at him, wide eyed with questions. Blaine could only nod. “All right. One, two...three!”

 

Blaine pushed off and swung his free leg over the saddle, landing heavily in the seat. He looked down to see Florian still there, still holding his ankle. “Thank you.”

 

“It was...my pleasure.” With apparent reluctance, the singer relinquished his grip. “I understand we are to move in just a few days?”

 

“Yes.” Blaine twisted his fingers into Melody's reins and nodded. “I have rooms ready for everyone. Well. Aunt Alice has rooms ready for everyone. In this endeavor I am nothing more than an open moneypouch.” He felt his mouth quirk into a wry smile, which Florian returned.

 

“I think Lady Amelia sees you as something more akin to a savior,” he remarked, his eyes alight with good humor. “At the very least, she sees you as her hero.”

 

“And what do you see?”

 

The words were out and hanging between them before Blaine could stop them, and he felt the blush racing up his cheeks. A matching pink tint colored Florian's fair skin as he caught and held Blaine's gaze with his own, all humor gone. His hand, which had been resting at his side, came up to cover Blaine's knee, pressing down and kneading gently. 

 

When he finally spoke, never taking his eyes off of Blaine, his voice was a whisper that managed to be both razor edged and feather soft all at once, and it went straight to the pit of his stomach, puddling there with all the warmth of sunshine. 

 

“I see  _you_.”

 

Upon hearing that, Blaine froze. It was too intimate, too much what he wanted. 

 

 _I don't really know who you are._

 

 _I want you anyway._

 

At the realization that he really did lack any sense of self-preservation at all, Blaine ducked his chin, swallowing one last time as he nudged Melody into a quick trot out of the stableyard, looking back just once before urging her into a gallop. 

 

Florian stood where he'd left him, hipshot and chin raised proudly as he watched Blaine ride away. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Kurt watched the cloud of dust kicked up by Melody's hooves as Blaine abruptly departed, and he wondered where exactly he'd gone wrong. 

 

_I could write an entire book on where you'd gone wrong,_  mocked Jesse St. James' voice from the back of his mind. That he couldn't even get away from St. James even with a two day journey between them made Kurt raise his eyes to the heavens in exasperation. How aggravating.

 

His thoughts turned back to Blaine. Kurt didn't have enough – any – experience to know how far was too far to go with flirting. Jesse had been no help.  _Be yourself,_  he'd said.

 

Kurt had not expected Blaine to leap down off of his horse and hustle him into the hay loft...but he hadn't really expected the man to just run away, either. If what Amelia had told him all those weeks ago was true, Blaine thought he was attractive and Blaine really did like men the same way that Kurt liked them. 

 

So what had gone wrong, here? He'd at least thought Blaine would express some interest in return. Unless him running away was some bizarre display of interest? Kurt groaned and moved to lean against the saddle rack. There was so much he didn't know about men.  _Why_  hadn't St. James been more help? Even if the Steward wasn't attracted to men, he obviously knew how the whole...how it all worked. And he knew how to get people into bed.

 

A snort of frustration escaped Kurt, fogging the chilly air around him. He became aware that since he was no longer in the stable, his clothing wasn't nearly substantial enough to just run around the English countryside in February. Gooseflesh lined his arms and his toes were going numb in his boots. He shook his head and strode briskly to the rear entrance of the keep, still trying to work out what he was doing. 

 

What Kurt wanted, he thought as he tugged the door shut behind him, was for this to be over with as quickly as possible so that he could find his way back to Raglan Castle and extract his father. Jesse said he'd have enough money at the end of this to go wherever he wanted – fine. He'd take his father with him, then. Lord Huntingdon didn't deserve him, not if the Earl was so willfully unaware of what Jesse did in his name and service. 

 

It was the first time Kurt had thought anything even faintly disparaging about his liege-lord. The thought froze him in his tracks for a split second before he shook it off and moved on, winding through the corridors of Crawford Keep. He didn't have a particular direction in mind, nor any particular agenda this day, so he was free to roam and turn over his chaotic thoughts until Amelia decided she wanted his company and sought him out. 

 

He wanted his father out of that nest of vipers, far away from the reaches of Jesse St. James and anyone even remotely like him. The one thing he had to do to accomplish that was to get Blaine Anderson into bed. How could he manage this – and swiftly - with the limited knowledge at his disposal? 

 

How, too, could he manage it when it was even more clear on this second meeting that there was some sort of camaraderie between them that went beyond the strictly physical? Kurt was no idiot, no matter what St. James thought. He was well aware that had circumstances been markedly different, he'd enjoy spending time with the Viscount. 

 

_Blaine doesn't deserve what you're going to do to him,_  his brain nagged, as it had been nagging since they'd met all those weeks ago. But what could he do? His father was the most important thing to him, more important than Huntingdon, Dalton, Crawford, or even the bloody King. Kurt thought of himself as a man of integrity – no matter what St. James had roped him into – but there was just about no betrayal he wouldn't commit to ensure his father's safety.

 

His jaw set with determination. He had to figure this out. He  _would_  figure this out, so that he could get it done as quickly and as with little damage as possible. Surely things would be easier once they were actually  _at_  Dalton. Being in such close proximity to Blaine would have to help hurry things along -

 

“Florian?”

 

Kurt turned to see Amelia emerging from her favorite sitting room, sewing basket slung over her arm. His heart twisted at the reminder that “as little damage as possible” was going to, was going to  _have_  to, include hurting her.

 

His friendship with the girl was nothing he nor St. James could have anticipated. Jesse had expected Crawford's daughters to be stuck up, haughty girls who wouldn't have the time of day for Kurt beyond lessons, and Kurt, having no reason to not think this would be the case, had gone along with it. 

 

And for the most part, this was true. Lizzie, Abigail and Kate didn't want music lessons and thought of him as little more than furniture. They preferred to spend their time primping in front of their mirrors and talking about the next social occasion. From what he'd gathered, the two eldest Freville girls had been much the same. 

 

Amelia liked being pretty well enough, and certainly she enjoyed a party, but mostly she loved music, sewing, and reading – and therefore was a misfit within her own family. She'd confessed to never really talking to any of her sisters, because once the vanity and socializing aspects of their conversations ended, there was really nowhere to go. They ended up just smiling weakly at each other before making excuses to part. 

 

But Kurt and Amelia were meeting almost every night in the music library to talk for long hours about everything – music, growing up lonely,  _Blaine_ . Anything they could think of. It was cutting dramatically into his...personal time...which was ratcheting up his sexual frustration to whole new levels of annoyance he'd never  _dreamed_  could exist when he began his self-exploration all those months ago. Yet he couldn't bear to give up the one spot of brightness he could find in this mess, even as it made him feel like a selfish cad for it and for what it would end up doing.

 

If Kurt had never really had a friend apart from his father, Amelia had only ever really had one – Blaine. And now she had “Florian,” a person who didn't even really exist. It made Kurt's heart ache and it complicated everything immensely. Right at this moment in time, it was his one regret of the entire mission, though his rising interest in Blaine was creeping up behind it – and he determinedly did  _not_  think about what all of this was going to do to Blaine, which was ten times worse and exactly as undeserved.

 

He pushed all of his spinning, whirling thoughts away.  _There's too much at stake for anything but expediency,_ he reminded himself, even as it pained him to do so.

 

“Florian?” Amelia was standing in front of him now, her hand on his arm and a puzzled look in her eyes. “Florian, hello, are you in there?”

 

“Yes. Hello. I'm sorry.” He forced a smile onto his face. “How are you today?”

 

“I'm fine.” But Kurt looked more closely – her eyes were red-rimmed and there were faint tear tracks down her cheeks.

 

“Are you really?” He tilted his head and let his smile become a bit softer and more genuine. “People who are fine don't usually look like they've been crying.”

 

“It's fine.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “Honestly it is. What's got you so far away?”

 

Kurt felt the warmth of his cheeks flushing pink and cursed his fair skin. It gave everything away. “Nothing of importance.” 

 

One sly, slender eyebrow arched upward. “Oh? Do you mean to say you haven't run into Blaine?” 

 

“What? I - ” Almost as bad as his traitorous blushing was his inability to get coherent sentences out when flustered. “I don't see what that has to do with  _anything_.” He drew himself upright, straight as an arrow, and tilted his chin up.

 

“Mm. Right. Certainly you don't.” Amelia's smirk was deeply amused. “I'll get it out of you tonight. The usual time?” Without waiting for a response, she leaned up to kiss him on the cheek and wandered off in the direction of her chambers.

 

“One of these days I'm not going to answer the door to you,” he called after her.

 

“You're a terrible liar,” floated back her response as she turned a distant corner and disappeared.

 

_No, and that's part of my trouble,_  Kurt thought.  _I'm really not._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still do my thanks go to MotherGoddamn for her generous work beta'ing this and cheering me on when I want to pitch it all out the window. More love and thanks to all who read the story, and to those also who comment or kudo it! Your time and attention is so, so very much appreciated. If you'd like, you can follow me on Tumblr - the user name is glass-parade. I babble a lot there, be warned.
> 
> And thank you, thank you for accepting Amelia - I had never intended for an OC to get so important, but it makes me feel better when people tell me they like her and can't imagine the story without her. That means an awful lot, it really does. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day has come for Amelia and Florian to move into Dalton House. Before they do, however, it's time Blaine sat down with his Advisors and warned them of the larger concerns that face them all.

“You've not called a meeting like this in a while, Blaine,” David remarked as he settled into one of the chairs in Blaine's library. “I won't say I'm not concerned.”

 

“Surely you don't think that there has to be a disaster for me to want to talk to my oldest friends?” Blaine tried to keep his tone light as he passed David a goblet of wine, but he knew he wasn't fooling his Marshal. It was one of the very few disadvantages of putting your closest friends into advisory positions, they always saw right through you.

 

“Not usually, but given your general mood of gloom lately, I don't think David is wrong to be worried.” Wes stepped through the door and nodded at the two men already there. “Is Thad coming?”

 

“I'm right here.” The man in question was directly behind Wes, slipping in and sitting down near David. “I've just sent off the last carriage to Crawford for Amelia's things. Are you sure two will be enough?”

 

“It will have to be.” Blaine replied as he handed more goblets of wine to the new arrivals. “I told her she has to leave room for her entourage's belongings as well. She's a bit more sensible than her sisters, she'll manage. I hope. If not, I've told Lord Crawford that he could send _one_ more carriage, but that was absolutely the limit.”

 

“I hope he doesn't do that,” Wes accepted his goblet and took a large drink before going on, rather grumpily. “We've had to give up the extra room we were going to use as her solar so that you had somewhere to put that music teacher of hers.”

 

“Her what?” Thad turned to glance inquisitively at Blaine. “You didn't mention a music teacher.”

 

Blaine blinked, attempting to convey innocence. He had been very careful to not mention Florian to Thad, unsure how to broach the subject without hurting his friend's feelings.  _Sorry, I know we had a marvelous time together and after it ended I said I'd never lie with anyone else ever again, but it's quite possible I've changed my mind..._ “Didn't I? I'm sure I meant to. I've just been so busy...yes. A music teacher. Amelia wanted one after Master Schuester went back to his home country.” He tried to catch Wes' eye to stop him from going on, to no avail.

 

“Some fellow named Florian.” Wes shrugged and took his own seat. “You're far too kind to your friends, Blaine.”

 

“Her father took the man on,” Blaine snapped, avoiding Thad's gaze as he moved to close the door. “I've nothing to do with it, I'm just letting her keep him around.”

 

“Him?” Thad's question was soft, but his eyes were hard as he looked at Blaine.

 

Who ignored him. “We need to discuss what's going to be happening in the coming weeks,” he informed his advisors in a brisk tone, dropping into the last free chair and drinking deeply of his own wine. “I'll be having several of the other noblemen of my acquaintance over here for talks.” Blaine took a deep breath and met the eyes of each of his friends in turn. Might as well just get it all over with. “I will be asking them to go to war.”

 

Wes and Thad looked thunderstruck; David only resigned and knowing. He was the one who spoke first. “I presume you'll be reaching out to Mowbray and Carrick first?”

 

“I've sent messengers already asking them to meet,” Blaine nodded. “I've known Nicholas and Jeffrey nearly as long as I've known you three, I know where their loyalties lie. From there we proceed on to the others that we can trust.”

 

“What exactly is going on, Blaine?” Wes had recovered enough to ask, a frown creasing his brow. “War? Surely not.”

 

Blaine flinched – the words were so much an echo of Amelia's when he'd inadvertently blurted out the war news to her. Shaking his head to clear it, he glanced at David. “You didn't tell them?”

 

“Until I knew plans were underway, what was the use of spreading conjecture?” David lifted his hand in a gesture of inquiry. “You and I were the only ones who needed to know anything while it was still merely an impending possibility.”

 

“Fair enough.” Blaine turned to address Thad and Wes directly. “Henry Tudor wants to take the crown from Richard – to form a new House and end these wars for good. But we all know Richard won't go down without a fight.”

 

“So you intend to help bring him one.” Thad's arms were crossed over his chest, and he sat far back in his chair, surveying the proceedings with narrowed eyes. “Lovely.”

 

“It's not as if I'm going to enjoy it, Thad,” Blaine shot back, nettled. “This is not like me helping to organize a ball or running off to the jousts.” He knew Thad was being difficult out of fear that he was trying to hide, but it made it no less irritating when his own nerves were already stretched thin. “It's war, not a party.”

 

Thad looked away, his jaw set in anger. Wes let a measuring gaze linger on the valet for a long time before returning his attention to Blaine. “Do you know when?”

 

“In the coming months. Late summer, they think.”

 

“Doesn't leave you much time.” Wes picked up a sheet of parchment and a quill from the table beside him. “We'll need to get messages to Larchmont, Dwyer, and Fergus as well. Will you be needing Lord Crawford to sit in?”

 

Blaine shook his head. “No. He's left this to me.”

 

Silence dropped over the room as his friends stared at him. “He's what?” Even David had a hard time understanding this.

 

“He's...” Blaine squirmed in his chair. He still hadn't reconciled himself completely to what Crawford's trust in him meant, hadn't quite wrapped his mind around the fact that there was no going back from here, from asking your friends and allies to fight and possibly die for the cause of a man he barely knew. It sat in the pit of his stomach like a stone. “He's left this to me. This part of the campaign is my responsibility.”

 

It was real for all of them then, in that moment, real and terrifying. It no longer mattered how far off the battle was in reality. In this room, it was entirely too close. Blaine's advisors and lifelong friends stared at him in horror. 

 

“That means...” Thad couldn't finish.

 

“...that I'm leading troops into battle, yes.” Blaine sat up as straight as he could and gazed past his friends, staring at the falling snow outside of the window. “We knew it would come to something like this if war returned in our lifetimes. Especially given that this is something of a...” He felt his mouth twitch with gallows humor. “...family squabble.”

 

“This is beyond what we imagined.” Wes' mouth was taut with stress. “This is you taking a much more significant role than we discussed. Damn it, Blaine! You're too clever for your own good! This will make you nothing but a target.”

 

“It amazes me how you think I must not have realized that,” Blaine snapped. “Or had you missed the fact that you've caught me in here asleep over military histories more often than not in the last several months? That I've been out in the sparring yard with David regardless of the weather?” Unable to control himself, his voice rose to a shout. “That I have been letting Aunt Alice deal with the petty, ridiculous squabbling between you and Emma because I've been afraid that if I took a role in settling the score at all, I'd dismiss both of you? No! Obviously you haven't been paying attention or you would have realized that quite frankly, Wesley, I do not want to send people I know to their deaths, and _I don't want to die, either!_ ”

 

He hadn't even been aware of the moment when he jumped to his feet and strode over to shout in Wes' face. Coming to himself, Blaine wound his fingers through his hair and pulled at it, whirling to pace the room as he let out an inarticulate howl of rage. David glared at Wes and stood up, moving to stand in Blaine's path and earning himself a furious glare.

 

“Don't even think about it, Blaine,” he warned. “I can knock you straight over onto your arse and you know it. Wes is being an idiot as usual, ignore him.” 

 

“Am I not expected to have an opinion on this?” Wes, too, was standing by now, throwing his hands in the air as he argued. “Blaine all but tells us he's signed his death warrant, and I'm to stand by and say nothing?”

 

“When what you're saying is unhelpful, then yes,” David fired back before turning to Blaine and placing his hands on his friend's shoulders. “Blaine, stop. Breathe. I will get you through this. That's my job. All of my knowledge and skill is at your disposal, as it has always been.”

 

“I appreciate that, David.” He shrugged out of his Marshal's grip and moved over to his desk, bracing his hands on top of it as he closed his eyes to try and gather his thoughts. “I didn't call the three of you in here to argue about this. I only wished to inform you of it. There's...really nothing we can argue about. I have accepted this mission. I will require your help and support.”

 

The room was silent, the three advisors exchanging glances and coming to a silent, reluctant agreement. Thad ventured first. “Tell us what we can do, my lord.”

 

Blaine closed his eyes more tightly at the usage of his correct address by his friend and former lover – it felt more serious and sincere than it ever had before when Thad had used it. He felt so much older than twenty and wanted nothing to do with it. 

 

Swallowing, he spoke without turning around. “Wes, Thad, I'll need you to coordinate rooms with Lord Crawford. I expect it will require several nights to speak to many of these men, and I haven't got the room for all of them...as it is, I'm not sure how we'll house Nicholas and Jeffrey, but we'll have to find a way. I don't want those two anywhere else but here.” 

 

“Yes, my lord.” Wes' usage of the proper form of address was no less a stab to the heart than Thad's had been. “By your leave.”

 

“Yes, Wesley. Go and begin the letters. We haven't much time.” He sighed and pried his eyes open. “Thad, if you'll coordinate with Emma on the rooms. I'd rather it be you now, I simply no longer have the patience to deal with any more fighting between her and Wes.”

 

“As you wish.” Both men departed the room, leaving Blaine to turn and face David, who wore a sober expression on his face.

 

“If it helps,” the Marshal informed him, “I shall never call you my lord unless you demand it.”

 

Blaine smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks. “I can always count on you for insolence and a swift kick in the arse, can't I, David?”

 

“I pledge my sword and my biting wit to you, yes.” David came to lean on the desk next to Blaine. “And my advice, if you'll take it.”

 

“I will listen to it, at the very least.” Blaine glanced over with a grin. “I promise nothing.”

 

“That's fine. I can enforce my beliefs if I think it's warranted.” He nudged Blaine with an elbow, prompting another grin. “Now, in all seriousness, Blaine – no more sleeping in the library. You tell me when you're coming here to study your histories and I'll come with you, and I'll make sure you're off to sleep at a reasonable enough hour.”

 

“What, are you my mother now?” His smile vanished, leaving only a sardonic, bitter smirk.

 

“No, I'm your second in command,” David replied, his own humor gone in the blink of an eye. “And I need my commander to be at full strength, health and alertness when he leads his legion into battle. I know you. You'd never forgive yourself if people got killed because of you being unprepared and inattentive.” He paused. “And I'd never forgive you if you got yourself killed for those reasons, either.”

 

“Well, God forbid you should have to withhold forgiveness from a corpse, David.” Blaine snorted and rolled his eyes.

 

“I'm quite serious.” David reached over and shook him until he looked up and saw that yes, David was serious. “I am your right hand man in these matters. This is why you kept me on when my father retired. Hell, Blaine, my father _retired_. How many Marshals get that luxury? You know I've learned from the best. I know from whence I speak.”

 

“I do. I do. Truly, I do. You do.” He looked around the room for his wine goblet and went to retrieve it, taking a long draught from it before refilling it and returning to the desk to offer David the flagon. “I will do my best to take your advice, and to not murder you in your sleep when you treat me like a child.”

 

“I can accept that.” The Marshal took the vessel and refilled his own cup. “We'll start tonight, after you've settled Amelia and her people in.” He frowned. “Actually, speaking of that, are we sure that's a good idea, having her here?”

 

“Well, it's too late _now_ ,” Blaine retorted, exasperated. “And what else could I do? She wanted to be home, her father wanted her out of Crawford Keep and well protected. This was the best compromise available.”

 

“I know, but really, you could have thought it through.”

 

“I _did_ , thank you.” He drained his cup and set it down somewhat harder than necessary. “Where will she be safer than here, when I'll have Lancaster-loyal nobles and their guards here at all times? She'll spend most of her time in the music library or her chambers anyway. And you'd never let any harm come to her when she's under your watch. It's the best solution, David.”

 

“I suppose.” The dark frown on David's face indicated that he wasn't in full agreement. “And what about this music teacher?”

 

“Florian will keep her occupied.” _And when he's not doing that, perhaps he can occupy my bed – no, stop it, Blaine._ “They've become friends. I can't take that away from her, not when I won't be able to spend much in the way of quality time with her. It's the least I could do...although.” He remembered his discussion with Amelia. “It does occur to me that I'd like you to do me a favor.”

 

“As I said, all my knowledge and skills are at your disposal.”

 

“Well. I really ought to have had you do this before, but with all of the insanity, I've not had a chance. I'm sure I'm overreacting but...”

 

“Out with it.” David elbowed him again.

 

“If you'll have someone look into this music teacher of hers. Florian Renner. I don't believe anything will turn up but...you know. Just to be safe.”

 

The Marshal cast him an odd look. “You don't trust Lord Crawford's findings?”

 

“He didn't actually check into the man's background either,” Blaine confessed. “He engaged his services on the spot when Amelia begged. He's as busy as I am, and really, who worries about a music teacher?” He shook his head. “I told you, I'm sure I'm overreacting. It's just that...” Trailing off, Blaine gnawed at his lower lip, wondering if he should go on. “Don't take this badly, but Amelia told him about me. About my...leanings.”

 

“She _what_?” David shoved himself away from the desk to face Blaine full on. “Didn't she - ”

 

“No, I've never told her the reasons why everyone _else_ wanted me to put a stop to my goings-on with Thad, just let her think I stopped because the Church says it's wrong..” He twisted his hand through his curls in agitation. “And this Florian...he's inclined the same way. She thought she was helping.”

 

“And you still agreed to take him in!”

 

“With that knowledge, would you rather have him roaming England, or here where we can keep an eye on him? I had to make a fast decision, David, and attempt damage control later. This was my best option.”

 

“I suppose,” David said again, his frown even darker than before. “Then I absolutely will put someone on the task of learning more about him. Give me all you know and I'll start now.”

 

“Amelia has the letter of recommendation that the Puckerman fellow from the music shop sent. I'll have it in your hands before the night is out.” He paused. “David – not a word of this to anyone else, all right? As I said, I'm sure I'm only being overcautious, no sense in riling up the others, right?”

 

David's gaze was long and calculating. “Right.” He drained his own wine glass and set it down with considerably more gentleness than Blaine had done. “I'll get started on selecting someone to carry out the job. I'd do it myself if I weren't suddenly more certain than ever that you require a keeper.”

 

Blaine rolled his eyes. “Out, go, before I rethink things and dismiss you.”

 

“I should like to see you try,” David scoffed. “I hope to see you at dinner.”

 

“We should have returned by then.” He glanced out the window at the sun. “I've to go now if I am to meet Amelia at Crawford and make the return journey in time. Farewell, then.”

 

“Farewell.” David opened the door and walked out, his boots echoing on the wooden flooring as he went. Blaine turned back to his desk to make sure he wasn't leaving anything sensitive out, and then left himself. To his surprise and dread, he ran into Thad almost immediately. 

 

“Thad! I thought you were with Emma.”

 

“I'll go see her momentarily.” The valet lifted one shoulder in an idle shrug. “I was waiting for you. Going to the courtyard?”

 

“You know I am, I've to go fetch Amelia.”

 

“And _Florian_.” Thad's mouth twisted with scorn.

 

Blaine sighed. He knew it had been a mistake not mentioning Florian to Thad, knew this would be the result when Thad finally did hear about him. Thad would – quite correctly – assume that Blaine had kept back the knowledge of the man because he was interested in sleeping with him, despite his oaths to the contrary. Thad was not, after all, a stupid man.

 

And Thad would be hurt, because while they never, ever discussed their past together, Blaine knew it was always there simmering between them, knew that it wouldn't take much to reignite the flame, if he'd wanted it.

 

But there were too many years between who they'd been then and who they were now. His passion for Thad had faded long before his anger at society's dictums had done. And he'd never quite forgiven the man for giving up on them so easily. So it hadn't been difficult to refrain from falling back into bed with his ex-lover, who had himself moved on to other partners.

 

He'd never meant to hurt him, though. And he'd never really anticipated that he'd ever meet anyone who would not only match his attraction to Thad, but would utterly and completely eclipse it. It had all simply...happened. 

 

It was entirely possible that nothing would come of his attraction to the singer.

 

_And perhaps pigs will take flight over London on the morrow._

 

He pushed away the taunting thought. Thad was waiting for an answer. “Yes. And Master Renner.”

 

“You didn't tell me about him for a reason.” The valet's tone was cold, angry. “You told Wes and David, but not me. That was not an intelligent move, Blaine.”

 

“It wasn't important.” Blaine tried vainly to keep his tone light, tried to convey how unimportant it was. “Honestly, I don't even know the man, how important could it be?”

 

Thad was not fooled. “Important enough to be sure I and only I didn't know for as long as possible. He's like you and me, then?”

 

“He might well be, as I said, I don't know him.” Blaine pressed his lips tightly together after the lie.

 

“If you wanted to give up your ridiculous oath of chastity, Blaine, you could have just come back to me,” his former lover hissed. “I've never given up on you.”

 

“No? What do you call your dalliances with that messenger that comes from Baron Carrick, then?” Blaine couldn't help snapping the accusation back, but immediately regretted it. It would make Thad think he was correct.

 

_But_ _**isn't** _ _Thad correct?_ The mocking voice returned, and Blaine ignored it just as steadfastly as he had the previous occurrence.

 

“I'm not the one who swore celibacy,” came the defensive retort. “And that's all they are, dalliances. He's nothing to me, not like you.”

 

“I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear that,” Blaine snorted. “Well, perhaps I don't want to be with someone who can throw himself at anyone and then cast them aside as if neither of them mattered. If you can do that to that messenger, who's to say you won't do it to me? In fact, Thad - ” Blaine affected a mock surprised expression, “ - you _did_ do that to me, the moment they told us that my reputation was more important than what we shared. I'm not the one who actually ended what was between us.”

 

Thad pulled back, obviously stung. “I didn't want to - ”

 

“Well, you did. Easily enough.” Blaine stalked onward, not looking at the other man, the slow burn of his anger sizzling in his mind.

 

“So, what is it now, you're getting revenge on me for something that I couldn't help? Something that happened four years ago?” The valet couldn't keep back his incredulous eye roll. “That makes no sense.”

 

“And I've never said I'm moving Master Renner in for any reason other than to be Amelia's companion and teacher. Her father engaged his services, not me.” They had arrived at the exit to the courtyard. Blaine pulled his heavy cloak and leather gloves off of the rack there and began to don them in preparation for going out into the February chill. “I would not recommend continuing to make assumptions out of jealousy, Thad. It doesn't become you.”

 

Anger smoldered through his veins as he pulled the manor door open and stalked out into the courtyard. “Let's move,” he shouted up to the coachman, who nodded and arranged himself in preparation for departure. Blaine climbed up into the carriage and slammed the door behind him. “Go!”

 

As the coachman snapped the reins on the horses and the carriage pulled out, Blaine looked back to see Thad still standing in the manor door, still obviously furious and smarting.

 

“Damn it,” he muttered, slumping back into the cushions. Any time life wanted to stop being complicated, he'd quite welcome it. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

“Where's my sewing basket? Oh, and my book. And my - ”

 

“Amelia. They're right here, exactly where you've left them.” Kurt grabbed Amelia's hands and guided her over to a chair, shoving her gently so that she'd sit down. “And even if you left anything behind, we're not going far. I'm sure Viscount Dalton will allow you to send for anything you forget.” He knelt in front of her and pressed her hands down into her lap. “Calm down.”

 

“I'm sorry.” She was all but bouncing in her seat. “I can't help it, I'm so nervous.”

 

Kurt smiled indulgently. “Whyever for?” _I've more reason to be nervous than you, I'm the one who's supposed to destroy his life. I'm the one who'd rather kiss him out of desire than the need to harm._ “You've known him forever.”

 

“I'm leaving _home_ , Florian.” Amelia looked at him as if he were dense. “I realize this is all quite normal for you, but I've never left Crawford for more than a short holiday. Now I won't be coming back to live here for years.”

 

“But you'll at least be somewhere familiar.” He shrugged lightly and smiled, but there was a tiny twist of resentment in his gut. His was a life of constant upheaval and drama and she had no idea. Moving from your father's home to the home of your childhood friend wasn't hard, leaving behind your father and everything you'd ever known with no promise to return to normal, that was hard.

 

It was not, however, her fault. Kurt determinedly forced a brighter smile onto his face. “It's all going to be fine, Amelia. You'll be close to home, just as you wanted, and you'll be safe, just as your father wanted. And then there's the Viscount.”  _Oh, yes indeed, there is the Viscount._ “Why, it's almost as if you're not leaving home at all, really.”

 

“I know. I do. It's just...” She pulled her hands free and fluttered them up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Even if it's only a small change, it is a change. And besides...” Sucking her lower lip in between her teeth, Amelia glanced up at Kurt from under her lashes, looking a bit sheepish. “Baroness Linwood petrifies me, to be quite honest.”

 

Kurt had yet to meet the redoubtable Alice Beaufort and knew nothing about her except that she was Blaine's aunt and she'd raised him alone after his parents and her husband died. “Myself as well,” he replied, smiling as reassuringly as he could muster. “She must be quite a woman if she scares you, you're frightening.”

 

“Oh, I am not!” She slapped at his arm and laughed. “You're awful.”

 

“I'm no such thing,” he objected with his own laugh. “I'm spectacular.”

 

“Children, children, you're _both_ right.”

 

Kurt and Amelia whipped their heads around to see Blaine leaning in the doorway of the sitting room they occupied, a broad grin on his face. Kurt's heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. “Blaine!” Amelia stood and skipped over to throw her arms around his neck and beam at him. “We didn't even hear your carriage arrive.”

 

“Well, then, surprise! Here I am!” He hugged Amelia tightly, gazing over her shoulder at Kurt. “Master Renner.”

 

“Sir.” Kurt bowed low, glancing up to see the other man's eyes darken and a tiny smile flit across his face. Ah. So he _hadn't_ ruined his chances the other day. He could still make this work...whether he wanted to or not.  Well, six of one... “It's a pleasure to see you again.”

 

One dark eyebrow arched upward. “The pleasure is mine.” Giving Amelia a last squeeze, Blaine put his hands on her shoulders and gently set her back. “Well? Are you prepared to leave?”

 

Amelia's hands came up and fluttered nervously again, her gaze darting around the room to check that she had everything she wanted. “I think so. Oh dear. Yes?”

 

“I'll send for anything you forget,” Blaine assured her, patting her arm. “Don't worry.”

 

“I've got your basket and book, Amelia.” Kurt came up behind her, feeling somewhat shy and awkward at being so close to Blaine again. “And see? I told you he'd help if you forgot anything.”

 

Blaine looked up, catching his eye briefly. “And you, Master Renner? Have you everything you need?”

 

 _I'm getting closer to it, yes._ “Just this.” Kurt gestured to his own bag. “I didn't come with much, it all fit into a corner of one of the carriages.”

 

“And I didn't need an extra one, Blaine,” Amelia piped up. “Everything I wanted to bring fit into the two carriages you sent.”

 

“Good. Wes will be delighted to hear it.” Extending his arm for her to take, Blaine waited for her to catch hold before moving towards the entryway, Kurt tagging along behind. “We'll say farewell to your mother and father and the girls, and we should be home for dinner. Rabbit, I think Aunt Alice said. Is that quite all right?”

 

“It's fine, Blaine. Thank you.” She leaned her head onto his shoulder as they strolled. “Thank you for this. For everything.”

 

Kurt watched as Blaine turned his head and pressed a quick kiss into Amelia's hair. “Anything to keep you safe and happy, pretty.”

 

It felt as if Kurt's heart was performing slow somersaults in his chest, to see their closeness. He wished he'd had any sort of close relationship with anyone besides his father. He didn't quite know what it was like to relate to another person who wasn't a parent, to want to protect or be protected by someone who wasn't related to you.

 

_Dangerous thoughts, Kurt_ . He couldn't afford to get attached. No matter how much he wanted to. Turning his gaze to the floor, he shifted Amelia's basket and his bag on his arm, which was starting to ache. Amelia had been quite proud that she only needed two carriages and a basket for all of her things, but what she hadn't told Blaine was that everything was packed to bursting. This basket was quite heavy, and his own bag was full of books. Kurt was strong, but even he had limits. Before he could stop it, a grunt of pain puffed from his lips.

 

Blaine turned. “Master Renner? Is everything all right?”

 

“It's fine.” But Kurt knew his smile was tight, and it made Blaine shake his head.

 

“Really, you can tell Amelia when she's taking advantage of you,” he said with a smile, turning to take the basket away. He ducked his head as Amelia aimed a smack at it and continued. “I'm not saying she won't take exception to the suggestion that she's anything other than sweetness and light, but you _can_ tell her.”

 

“I'll try to remember, sir,” Kurt laughed and reached out with his newly freed arm, seizing Amelia as she tried again to swat Blaine. “Amelia, he's offering you a home that doesn't require you to marry anyone. Be nice.”

 

She harrumphed in mock annoyance. “Oh, all right. So long as he keeps his slurs on my character to himself.”

 

Blaine rolled his eyes indulgently. “I'll see what I can do.” Looking up, he spotted Lord and Lady Crawford ahead, along with their youngest daughters. “Ah. And the farewell begins. Oh, dear.” Catching sight of Amelia's eyes welling up, he dug out a handkerchief and handed it over, stepping back then to stand beside Kurt. “Let's give them a moment.”

 

“As you wish, sir.” They stood together, looking neither at each other nor at the Frevilles, who were wrapped into what seemed one large hug with many tears on the part of Lady Crawford and Amelia. Kurt decided to nip the awkward silence in the bud before it could really get painful. “How is Melody?”

 

The Viscount chuckled and cast a sidelong glance at him. “You're asking me about my horse?”

 

“You'd prefer I inquire after the weather?” Kurt raised an eyebrow and twitched the corner of his mouth.

 

“Touché.” Blaine turned to face him. “Melody is well. As the weather warms she'll be pleased that I ride her more...” His cheeks went a faint shade of pink. “If you'd like, you may accompany me. I have horses enough.”

 

“I'd like that.” He felt a smile, a genuine, happy smile go across his face. To be on a horse again – to ride with Blaine – no. No. His joy dimmed a bit as he reminded himself.

 

_You cannot get attached._

 

Blaine tilted his head in concern. “Master Renner? Are you quite all right?”

 

“I'm fine. Just fine.” Kurt blinked rapidly and looked over at the Frevilles. Amelia was wiping her eyes and smiling as she waved the two men over. “It would appear we are nearly to depart.”

 

“Indeed. Lord Crawford. My ladies.” Blaine nodded at the family as they walked over. 

 

“You'll take good care of my little girl, won't you, Edward?” Lady Crawford placed a hand on Blaine's arm and stared at him with beseeching eyes.

 

“As much as she'll let me.” His smile was reassuring and warm. Kurt wished it could be directed at him. It seemed like in the light of Blaine Anderson's smile would be a very nice place to be, indeed.

 

With only a few more tears, they finally managed to extricate themselves and load into the carriage, Amelia sniffling as she settled into her seat next to Blaine. Kurt provided her with a fresh handkerchief, earning a grateful smile in return. Leaning back just in time for the carriage to start off, he asked, “Will you be all right?”

 

“Of course I will,” she replied as she daintily blew her nose. “It's just a rather significant change, that's all.” It was a clear effort, but she managed to put on a bright smile.

 

“You can go back to visit whenever you like, of course, Amelia,” Blaine assured her with a hug. “I can have a carriage ready at any time.”

 

“We've this ride to get through first,” Amelia teased, dabbing at her eyes one last time before handing each man his handkerchief back, not noticing their cringing as they gingerly accepted the soiled fabric squares. “I've a book of poetry in my basket, if someone will pass it to me. I thought we could take turns reading.”

 

“It's not a bad way to spend the time,” Blaine shrugged, handing Amelia the basket in question. “Master Renner, is that acceptable to you as well?”

 

“I'd love it.” Kurt smiled gratefully, glad that they would not have to spend the ride in silence. He did not wish to dwell on either the darkest nor the most hopeful of his thoughts. An interlude of distraction was most entirely welcome.

 

Amelia extracted the slender volume from her sewing basket and spread it open on her lap, taking the first shift of reading in her high, clear voice.

 

_Oh, thoughtful heart, plunged in distress_

_With slumber of sloth, this long winter's night_

_Out of the sleep, of mortal heaviness_

_Awake a noon, and look upon the light..._

 

It was an easy way to pass an afternoon's ride, passing the book between them in turns. Blaine's mellow voice with its slightly roughened edges lent a sensuality to the reading that Kurt was hard pressed to conceal his enjoyment of when he first heard it. He ended up in a confusion of coughing, swallowing, and leg crossing that he was despairingly certain made him look like a spastic child.

 

For his part, Blaine tried not to reveal how affected he was by the purity of Florian's bell-like tones, but he was acutely aware that dropping a book on someone's foot when they touched your hand while trying to accept it from you was not a move that would impress anyone at all. It was unfair, he grumbled to himself, it was not his fault that when he'd brushed Florian's fingers, that jolt of lightning had run through him and loosened his grip.

 

Amelia was simply grateful that the ride was relatively short, because the tension between the two men was driving her insane. She snuck peeks at them while she read, taking deep breaths to swallow her giggles at how they worked so very, very hard to not be caught staring at each other. It was, she decided, entirely ridiculous and must not be allowed to go on. She was quite certain that if she had to hold back too much laughter for too much longer, it would kill her. 

 

Kurt had gotten absorbed in reading a particularly lyrical passage when Blaine leaned over and interrupted him, tapping him on the knee and pointing out of the carriage window when he'd caught his eye.

 

“We're home,” he whispered with a smile, nodding his head at the sight of Dalton House emerging from the snowy pine grove in which it had been built.

 

Kurt's heart stopped at the perfect wintry picture unfolding before him, the wide snow-dusted path of cobbles leading to the large dwelling of stone. Dalton House was smaller than Crawford  
Keep, yet somehow it was no less imposing, sprawling low and dark across the landscape but for a single tower at the back jutting towards the sky like a pointing finger. He gaped at the sight of it.

 

“It's incredible,” he murmured, flashing a shy smile at Blaine. “Look at these trees, this land, this house – it's beautiful.”

 

Memories of Raglan Castle lurked in the back of his m ind. Odd, he reflected. He'd lived there for years, his father was there, yet it was this house in which he had never set foot that pulled at him with the sensation of _home_. He wondered where his room was, if it was nice, if it was anywhere near Blaine's.

 

_Strictly for the purposes of the mission_ , he told himself firmly.

 

The carriage passed through a set of heavy iron gates and turned into the courtyard where a fleet of footmen awaited to help them disembark. David and Wes waited there as well. Blaine let out an involuntary sigh when he realized Thad was not there, and shook his head at Amelia's inquiring gaze. He vowed to try to soothe his friend's hurt feelings somehow. “Well, here we are. Home.”

 

“Home.” Kurt beamed a smile out of the carriage window at the house.

 

“And perhaps now that we'll all be under one roof,” Amelia chirped, “the two of you can stop tiptoeing around each other and get around to kissing.” 

 

Kurt and Blaine froze in their seats, staring at the girl like rabbits cornered by hunting hounds. Kurt actually forgot how to breathe. Blaine had to keep reminding himself that the Crown frowned upon murder. Amelia simply stuck her head out of the open carriage door and waved at the Marshal and the Steward.

 

“Wesley! David! How lovely to see you! Help me down?”

 

And with that, she hopped down out of the carriage, arm in arm with Blaine's Steward as she chattered to him about God knew what while the two men she'd just blindsided studiously avoided eye contact for several long, agonizing minutes.

 

Kurt swallowed and broke the silence when he couldn't stand it anymore. “My lord, I - ”

 

Blaine shook his head and held up his hand in a gesture of silencing. He still wouldn't look at Kurt and appeared to be thinking very, very hard. All at once, he nodded and got to his feet, making his way out of the carriage. Once he was on the ground, he turned and beckoned for Kurt to join him.

 

After only a moment of hesitation, Kurt climbed slowly down out of the carriage. He was pleased with himself when he managed to do so without tripping and falling.

 

Although – hm. That might have forced Blaine to grab him - 

 

“Subtlety,” came Blaine's voice, cutting through the speculative haze of Kurt's thoughts, “is not Amelia's middle name.”

 

Kurt came to his senses and focused on the Viscount, who was watching Amelia sashay through the doors of the manor house. “Mm. Eleanor, wasn't it?”

 

“Indeed.” Blaine's gaze was fixed firmly forward. “Master Renner?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“When we we hunt her down, did you want to dump the snow down the back of her dress, or shall I?”

 

Kurt pretended to consider this. “I believe that I shall concede that privilege to you, sir.”

 

“Excellent.” He bent down and scooped up a handful of slush in his gloved hand, turning to flash a quick smile at Kurt. “Don't call me sir. When we're alone, you may call me simply Blaine.”

 

Kurt couldn't help but smile back. “Blaine it is, then. If you'll call me Florian.”

 

The Viscount grinned wider and jerked his head in the direction of his home. “Shall we, Florian?”

 

“After you.” _So I can enjoy the view,_ Kurt very carefully did not say.

 

“No.” Blaine shook his head and used his empty hand to reach for Kurt's, giving it a squeeze before pulling him into a run. “ _With_ me.”

 

And with that simple gesture, uniting them in a common cause, the awkwardness between them fell away and they grinned at each other as they sprinted after Amelia.

 

With a glimpse into Blaine's sparkling, mischievous eyes, Kurt could almost forget the true reason why he was here and simply pretend for one shining moment that he was in a position to fall in love.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trio are reading poetry by John Lydgate from "The Book of the Life of Our Lady," originally published in 1483. Thanks again to MotherGoddamn for her marvelous beta duties and so much love to all who read, I appreciate all of you - special thanks to the commenters, who help keep me in line. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mischief, correspondence, insomnia, night time ramblings, and a surprising occurrence.

On the first morning of Florian and Amelia's residence at Dalton House, breakfast was going...poorly.

 

“My oat porridge is cold,” Blaine announced, a mournful tone in his voice. “Also, I suspect, salted.”

 

Florian bit into a slice warm buttered bread and made a face, setting it aside. “Not to cast aspersions on the talents of your dairy attendants, sir, but I feel that this butter lacks...a certain youth.”

 

“And yet _my_ breakfast is perfectly all right,” Amelia announced with smug cheer, ignoring the glares directed at her by the men. “I wonder why that is?”

 

“Florian, did I ever get to tell you that my manor is haunted?” Blaine pretended to look around the dining hall. “Sometimes, on a chill late winter morning, you can hear the voice of an irritating girl just out of nowhere.”

 

“Oh, is that what that is?” Florian looked up and blinked innocently at Blaine. “I'm so glad it wasn't only myself that heard it.”

 

Alice looked up from her plate and threw her knife down, creating a noisy clatter. “Both of you – all  _three_ of you – stop it this instant,” she snapped. 

 

“But Aunt Alice - ” Blaine looked over at the Baroness, frowning.

 

“No, Edward, you hush.” She pointed authoritatively at the two men, who shrunk away under the ferocity of her gaze. “For the very great love of God, Emma should have had you two whipped, you tracked so much muddy ice water through the manor, not to mention that you possibly ruined an antique carpet.” 

 

Florian inhaled sharply and turned to Blaine. “You didn't tell me that.”

 

“You shush too, young man. I haven't decided what I think of you yet and you're only at the table because Edward and Amelia insisted. And oh yes, Amelia.” Alice rounded on the girl, who froze in place mid-chew, eyes wide and guilty. “Amelia Freville, you scamp. Wipe that innocent look off of your face. I have no earthly idea _what_ you said to provoke my nephew, but I've known you since you were in a smock, so I'm sure it was something wildly inappropriate and therefore you deserved what you got.”

 

With a huff, Alice went right back to her own breakfast, leaving three chastened young adults to blush into their plates and bowls.

 

“I'm sorry,” Amelia mumbled, not looking at either Florian or Blaine, the latter of whom snorted.

 

“Well, you _should_ be – ouch!” He turned an amazed gaze onto Florian, who was busy inspecting the small bowl of butter than Amelia had pushed towards him by way of apology. “What the devil was that for?”

 

“Just accept her apology, and apologize back, my lord,” Florian replied patiently and quite as casually as if he hadn't just kicked a nobleman in the shins. “I apologize as well, Lady Amelia. I'm awfully sorry about your dress.”

 

“It's all right. I'm sure with some patience and time, it will come clean, and if it doesn't, I'll think of something to do with it,” she responded, signaling down the table for another bowl of oat porridge. When she had it in her hand, she turned a pointed glare on Blaine.

 

He frowned. “You're not honestly holding that oat porridge hostage.”

 

“Do you want to eat or not?” Amelia raised one eyebrow and waited.

 

“For the love of...ow! Stop _doing_ that!” He reached down and rubbed his shin, glaring at Florian. “Fine! Amelia, I apologize. Although you were extremely inappropriate and childish, I should not have retaliated in an equally childish manner, and I'll replace your dress.” Crossing his arms, he sulked at both of them. “Happy?”

 

“It will suffice.” Amelia reached over and dropped the bowl in front of him, shaking her head in amusement. Alice watched all of the byplay with a slightly pained expression.

 

“Do you know, I thought I was done raising children when Edward came of age,” she commented with furrowed brow. “One would never know that any of the three of you had attained majority.”

 

“I'm very sorry, Aunt Alice - ”

 

“I do apologize, Baroness - ”

 

“My lady, I beg your forgiveness - ”

 

Alice got to her feet, flapping her hands. “Enough, enough, dear God in Heaven that's quite enough, thank you. I ask only that you please get through breakfast without murdering each other or provoking Miss Pillsbury to violence.” She glanced over at the little housekeeper, who was stalking through the dining hall with a stiff brush and bucket clutched in her hands. With deliberate obviousness, the woman turned to look at the head table and glared at the three miscreants there, who went back to blushing.

 

“I don't think she's forgiven us for the carpet,” Florian noted softly.

 

“I don't think she's forgiven you for _anything_.” Alice dropped a kiss on her nephew's tangled crop of curls and smiled indulgently at Florian and Amelia. “I'm not surprised.”

 

Blaine chewed at his lower lip, thinking. “I shall have to get her something nice.”

 

“I believe she would quite welcome a respite from your shenanigans, Edward,” was Alice's dry reply. “But if you're going to attempt to buy her forgiveness yet again, then some sort of fresh fruit would go a long way towards that end.”

 

“But it's February,” Blaine protested. “Where would I find any sort of decent fruit?”

 

“That is not at all my problem, darling.” Alice waggled her fingers in farewell and swept out of the hall, leaving the chastened trio lost in thought behind her.

 

Blaine leaned over to speak to Florian. “You _kicked_ me.”

 

“I did indeed.” Florian spread the fresh butter on a new slice of bread and bit in with more relish than he had previously. “Mm. A vast improvement. Your dairy attendants may be geniuses.”

 

“I'm shocked Emma really and truly held back butter to spoil. Do you think she was actively saving it for revenge, certain that I'd do something stupid sooner or later?” Blaine tested his oat porridge and found it to be much more edible than the first bowl. “Don't change the subject. You kicked me! And we apologized to Amelia when she couldn't refrain from _meddling_. Whatever did we do that for?”

 

Florian chewed his bite and swallowed before answering. “If I didn't do it, she would have done it and I'm sure you know it. You didn't actually think you'd get away with not apologizing back? We ruined her dress.” He took another bite. “It was a very nice dress, and ruining it was undeserved even if she is a meddling nit sometimes.”

 

Amelia looked up. “I can hear you, you know.”

 

“You are a troublemaker.” Blaine pointed at her and glared. “Sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong.”

 

“I'm trying to help! If I left you to your own doings, you wouldn't ever get around to anything.”

 

“For someone who doesn't care to get married, you certainly are interested in other people's relationships,” Blaine retorted.

 

“Only yours.” Amelia smiled cheekily and nibbled at her porridge, contriving to look innocent.

 

“Death of me. You shall be the death of me.” Blaine covered his face with his hand and groaned, while Florian turned a brilliant shade of pink.

 

“I believe I'm quite finished eating, perhaps I shall go assist Miss Pillsbury with getting those stains out of the rug,” he blurted out before excusing himself and scurrying away. Blaine sighed.

 

“See, Amelia? Look what you've done. You're only embarrassing the two of us you know. It's not nice.”

 

“I have to do something,” she insisted. “You're far too chivalrous for your own good. I want you happy before you go running off into battle.”

 

“Oh my God, Amelia, you don't even know what you're talking about.” Blaine covered his face again. “Please, for the love of all things good and pure, if you love me at all, you'll stop. I don't think Florian can take much more, either, he'll go up in flames at the rate you're going.”

 

She frowned. “Do you promise to at least court the man? I've practically dropped him into your lap!”

 

“ _Amelia._ My God, if it will stop you, yes, I will court him, something, anything, just please, please stop _talking_.” Blaine took a deep breath and changed the subject with no fanfare at all. “What are your plans for the day?”

 

After only a brief pout, she shrugged. “I thought Florian and I would go into town. I have some more music waiting, and I believe he wants to send a letter to his father. Master Puckerman is helping him keep in contact.”

 

“Oh. That's uncommonly kind of him, but judging by that letter he sent, he did take an instant liking to the man when they met.” _Who wouldn't? He's beautiful and has that marvelous voice and..._ “Speaking of that letter, have you got it in your belongings? I'd like to see it again.”

 

“Of course I have. Whatever do you need it for?”

 

“No reason.” Blaine shrugged and concentrated on the last of his porridge, not looking at her. “I'd just like to read it again, that's all.”

 

He was sure that David's investigation would come to nothing, but he still felt the need to go through the motions.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

“Good day, Mistress Puckerman!” Amelia's sunny tones rang through the music and paper goods shop as they entered, her smile equally as bright and clear – if slightly forced. “It is a pleasure to see you!”

 

“And good day to you as well, my lady.” The tiny woman who had been busily reshelving songbooks when they opened the shop door beamed a broad smile back at them, her large brown eyes sparkling with good humor and a genuine pleasure to see them. “It has been too long! But who is this?”

 

Amelia grabbed Kurt's hand and pulled him over to the woman. “This is Florian Renner, my new music teacher. Surely Master Puckerman mentioned him?”

 

“Ah! The one with the angel's voice!” Mistress Puckerman nodded in realization. “Oh, it must be so wonderful to have such talent at your disposal, my lady.”

 

“It is indeed.” Amelia smiled and squeezed his hand as Kurt blushed and tilted his head high. “Mistress Puckerman sings as well,” she informed him, nodding at the smiling woman. “While it is Master Puckerman who actually runs the shop, it is she who selects the music and aids all in their choices.”

 

“It is true,” Mistress Puckerman confirmed at Kurt's look of surprise. “Not that my husband does not sing well himself. It is only that I have a more refined talent and much more of a motivation to display it for the edification of others.”

 

“...I see.” Her personality was a bit on the overwhelming side, Kurt thought. This was only verified when she put down the books in her arms and took his hands in her own, her smile growing ever wider.

 

“You must call me Rachel. And you must come here often! We will be great friends, I know it.”

 

“Oh, well, you know, as often as I am able - ” Kurt looked around for Amelia, only to see the girl smile and wave as she crossed the shop away from them. Clearly, he would not be rescued by her. With determination, he put an only slightly manic smile on his own face and turned back to Rachel.

 

“We have such a grand selection of music and, oh, Florian, do you suppose you could sing? For me, I mean? So that I can hear the voice that Noah said was the best he'd ever heard? Besides myself, of course, he's well aware that I have worked quite hard to hone my voice, but I'm sure yours is quite lovely, if not quite up to the training and caliber of my own.”

 

“I don't - ” Now he really was at a loss for words and was terribly confused. Jesse St. James was a complete bastard, but at least he was direct in his insults. Unless Rachel Puckerman was just thoughtless? All he knew was that he hadn't felt this off-balance since he'd had to put up with the Steward's abuse on a daily basis.

 

And then he remembered, everything dropping into place as he put _St. James_ and _Puckerman_ together in the same line of thought.

 

_You, Noah, would very much miss your lovely Jewess if her throat were to be slit, wouldn't you? _

 

This was her. The woman Jesse had threatened to murder without ever having met her. At that realization, Kurt decided that Rachel Puckerman could insult his mother's memory and call him a blight against God and nature and he would forgive and defend her anyway. 

 

“Perhaps another time, Mistress Puckerman,” he replied, swallowing down the lump in his throat and giving her a more genuine smile than he had before. “I'd love to hear you sing, as well. We shall have to perhaps find a piece that we can sing together.”

 

She pulled back and clapped her hands, as delighted as a young girl. “Oh, that would be marvelous. Do come here often, we can go through my personal library and choose something perfect.” 

 

Kurt couldn't help but continue to smile at her infectious enthusiasm, which he now found more endearing than terrifying. “It would be my honor.” 

 

“Are we getting along?” Amelia appeared back at his side, a slim book in her hand and a mischievous look in her eyes. “All friends together?”

 

“Yes,” Kurt replied firmly. “Rachel's quite generously offered her music library for me to peruse.”

 

“Oh. Well, that's splendid, then.” Brief confusion gave way to a careless shrug. If Florian and Rachel got along, then so much the better. She peered over Rachel's head to the back of the shop. “I received a message about an order, Mistress Puckerman. Has it arrived?”

 

“It has,” rumbled a low voice from the back, a blue velvet drape parting to reveal Noah Puckerman in all of his surly glory, brown hair sticking out in all directions and clothing streaked with dust. “Apologies, I was sorting out the back room.” His gaze fell on Kurt. “Master Renner. We meet again.”

 

“We do.” Kurt nodded deferentially to the imposing man. “It is good to see you again.”

 

“It is something, at least.” A harsh chuckle barked out of his lips as he moved to the book and paper covered counter at the side of the shop. “I have your order, my lady, and for you, Master Renner, correspondence from your father.”

 

Kurt's heart soared at those words, and he moved forward with purpose to retrieve the envelope that Puckerman held out to him. As he approached the counter and extended his fingers, the shop owner pulled back a slight bit, beckoning Kurt forward with his other hand. 

 

“I would not have you bring trouble to my door, nor to my wife, do you understand?”

 

Kurt nodded, putting all the conviction he felt into his eyes and hoping the other man could see it. “I do. Absolutely I do. I would defend her as I would Lady Amelia, sir. Please, you've nothing to worry about from me.” 

 

Puckerman stared him down for a moment more before handing the packet over. “See that it remains that way.” 

 

So excited was he to have word from his father, Kurt could manage only a quick smile of thanks before snatching the letter and clutching it to his chest. Remembering he had a letter to send in return, he passed his own envelope over with a few coins and more murmured gratitude. The envelope included a brief missive to St. James indicating that his mission was underway, but gave no further details. 

 

There would be time enough for that. Just knowing that Kurt had managed to meet the Viscount on several occasions should placate St. James for the nonce. 

 

He waited impatiently as Amelia took her time picking up her order, nearly dancing in place while she counted out the coins to pay for it. This time it was he who seized her hand, dragging her out of the shop with hastily shouted farewells to the bemused Puckermans. 

 

“Florian!” Amelia was laughing as he all but shoved her up into the carriage and hurried in after her, dropping into his own seat with an undignified haste. He flashed a tiny, I-beg-your-indulgence smile at her as he cracked the wax seal and yanked the parchment out, eagerly unfolding it and scanning Mistress Corcoran's tidy handwriting.

 

_My Son,_ the letter began.

 

_I find it is much too quiet around here without you._

 

Kurt threw back his head and laughed, prompting Amelia to look up from her book and smile. “Good news?” she asked. 

 

“It's just wonderful to hear from my father,” he replied honestly and with a shy smile. “I've missed him.” He bent his head back over the letter.

 

_Master St. James tells me that you are placed with a good family. I am happy to hear this. You and he have had your differences in the past but I am glad, truly glad, Kurt, that you have managed to set these aside. I am glad that St. James is making up for the sins of his past by aiding you._

 

That made him furrow his brow in annoyance. Once again, he wished he could have told his father what all of this truly was about. Wished that he could have convinced his father to just run somewhere far, far away from Raglan Castle and the questionable ethics of its inhabitants. 

 

Then again, had this not happened, he'd never have met Blaine - 

 

_Don't you dare,_ he told himself in a fury.  _That doesn't matter. Do not get attached._

 

Swallowing hard, he kept reading.  _I know that you will take to your new job as you always do, with the determination to do it well and be a credit to your mother's memory. She would be so proud of you, Kurt, to see that you have moved up from the stables. My job is a good and honest one, but you were never meant to be part of it. Circumstance kept you by my side, my boy, and now chance has made a better man of you._

 

Kurt's eyes stung with tears he adamantly refused to shed. He felt horrible, filthy and used and using and completely undeserving of his father's love. What he would not give to be able to get out of this despicable circumstance! To save his father and to be free to fall in lov -

 

No.

 

One final paragraph. He blinked the tears back and concentrated hard.  _I know you will make me proud, Kurt. Please write soon. Mistress Corcoran sends her affection and reminds you to practice and study hard. And Master St. James has told us that he will be including a letter of his own in with this one when he sends it off._

 

_All my love to you. Be good._

_Father_

 

Folding the letter carefully and tucking it into his doublet by his heart, Kurt picked the envelope up from where he'd tossed it on the seat next to him. Sure enough, it was heavier than it ought to be, with one more leaf of parchment inside. The writing on the outside addressing it to Florian Renner was in St. James' bold hand. 

 

He weighed the letter in his hand for a moment before shaking his head and setting it aside. He couldn't deal with this now, not so soon after the barrage of emotions he was feeling in the wake of his father's missive. Nothing St. James would have sent would be good, it would be absolutely certain to put him in a foul mood for the rest of the afternoon. No, it was best to save it for later, when he was alone and would not have to answer any questions about why he had hurled the letter away and shouted in rage.

 

Smiling once more at Amelia, Kurt rested his elbow on the carriage door and propped his chin on his hand, watching the scenery go by and turning his thoughts over and over in his mind.

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Hours later, the letter lay on his bedside table where he thrown it. He had only needed to read it once – the lines of the short missive were burned into his mind's eye after that.

 

_It has been a fortnight and I've heard nothing from you,_ St. James had written.  _I shall expect a progress report before March or I will start sending you your father's fingers, one at a time._

 

The horrifying visual had stopped Kurt's heart, sent him gasping back tears and fighting for breath. He'd cast the letter from his hand immediately, pulling his fingers away from the parchment as if it had burned him. He shuddered at the hatred etched there in every letter, and wondered again at the injustice in the world that allowed vile, heartless men like St. James to rest on their laurels at the expense of good people like his father.

 

It made him ill.

 

And now it was late, very late, and he couldn't sleep – he'd been lying awake for God only knew how long. Amelia had decided, apparently, to pause their nighttime chats while she settled into their new home. But Kurt had gotten accustomed to the late evening heart-to-hearts, and tonight more than ever he did not want to be alone with his thoughts, even if he couldn't tell Amelia the real cause of his distress.

 

He rolled over and off of the bed, making sure his feet landed directly in his slippers as he got to his feet. With a quick tug, his warm robe was off of its perch on his bedpost and wrapped snugly around his waist. Sleeping in nothing more than loose linen breeches was one thing; wandering an unfamiliar house late at night in such an ensemble would be entirely another. He cinched the belt and turned to pick up his bedside candle.

 

_The letter._ His throat closed as he spied it laying like a clutch of poisonous spiders on his table. Snatching it and the candle up, he threw the parchment into the banked fire before setting off on his late night ramble.  _ Good riddance, _ he thought with no little viciousness as he hauled his chamber door open and made his way down the corridor.

 

He wasn't sure where he wanted to go. Pausing, he tried to remember back to the tour he'd been given by Blaine's Steward – a much more pleasant specimen of his kind than Jesse St. James – and only recalled that he was to please not go exploring the tower, it was strictly for confining prisoners. Not that they ever had any, Wesley had explained, but still, that was its purpose and they wanted to keep it that way.

 

Kurt was quite willing to go along with that.

 

Trailing one hand on the wall for balance and a sense of security, he felt a bit foolish. Roaming alone by candlelight through someone else's home? In one's nightclothes? No, that wasn't odd behavior at all. Everyone was asleep and Kurt had no idea what he wanted to do, except that he truly did not wish to go back to his room and lie awake until morning. Therefore, when he arrived at the top of the stairs, he made his way down with caution, preferring to chance running into someone who would think he was insane rather than sit alone with mental images of Jesse St. James cutting off his father's fingers.

 

He looked to his right as he arrived on the ground floor, and froze.

 

Lamplight burned from the door he remembered now was the manor library. Blaine used it as a study. He'd been asked to stay out of there as well.

 

So of course he shuffled over to the door as quietly as possible and peered in, jaw dropping and a tiny gasp escaping as he took in the sight of Blaine asleep and sprawled out over a pile of open books on his desk.

 

Kurt pushed the door wider and tiptoed inside, setting his candle on a small table on his way to the desk. A frown crossed his face – he distinctly remembered Blaine rather ostentatiously proceeding upstairs to sleep well before he and Amelia had retired. Had he come back down here after everyone had gone to bed? Why?

 

A glance at the books and papers scattered on and around the desk were a clue, all military histories and lists of people Kurt didn't know. More to do with this war Amelia had mentioned, this war that Kurt was very certain his mission was tied into. That Blaine was apparently going to be involved in.

 

More puzzle pieces were fitting together.

 

He was distracted by the sight of Blaine's dark curls tumbling every which way as he slept. They looked soft, silky in the light of the oil lamp at the corner of the desk. Kurt's fingers itched to wind gently through the mass of loops and spirals, to trace over the back of Blaine's neck and down his back to feel the rhythm of his breathing. He felt an inexplicable longing to press kisses to each of his eyelids, just above where the dark fringe of Blaine's eyelashes rested against his cheeks.

 

 _Surely sleeping like this isn't comfortable._ Moving without thought, Kurt knelt down beside Blaine's chair and hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and brushing a cloud of curls away from the other man's closed eyes, thinking only to awaken him and convince him to go back to bed. His intentions were nothing more than altruistic and concerned.

 

“Blaine?”

 

And that was why it was such a surprise when Blaine opened his eyes and, before Kurt could register more than a flash of molten hazel, he had seized the front of Kurt's robe and pulled him in for a kiss that burned fire and ice from his lips down to his toes.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

“All right, Blaine. We're done for the night.” David, true to his word, had stood over Blaine until the Viscount had given in and retired to his chambers.

 

Ostensibly.

 

After he was quite sure that everyone else was tucked away for the night, he'd slipped back down to his library and the text that he'd been absorbed in before David had pulled him away. He'd honestly only intended to finish the section he'd been on, and then he'd go back to bed.

 

One page led to another, and another, and...well, he didn't remember falling asleep. Then again, he never did.

 

Sleep, despite the awkward position of being draped over books, always came swiftly and deeply to Blaine, dropping him into dreams until someone nudged him awake. Most nights, they were nightmares, dreams of being run through with a sword in a raging melee, of falling off of a warhorse and being trampled, of watching friends and strangers alike die.

 

But some nights, like this night, thankfully, they were dreams of Florian, of eyes fading from sky blue to clear green to stormy gray, of chestnut hair in disarray against a pillow and smooth, pale skin flushed with desire. Of mobile lips and tongue and kisses that lasted for hours.

 

He welcomed these dreams, welcomed the respite they gave him from war and fear. He dreamed of the words he wasn't sure how to say, the desire he didn't know how to express, the kisses he had no earthly idea how he was ever going to initiate. Everything was more vivid this night, Blaine realized, no doubt due to the other man's close proximity.

 

He'd toyed with the idea of knocking at Florian's door, only to see if he was awake, just to talk. He'd paused a mere few steps away and retreated, electing instead to hold to his original plan to go back to his library. 

 

Florian lived here now. There was time enough to work out how to approach the man, no matter  _ how _ impatient Amelia was for them to...do whatever it was she was expecting from them. They had after all only met three times. It was much too soon for anything more than gentle exploration, subtle hints and cues, exchanged glances and accidental touches.

 

In his dreams, however, Blaine had free rein to explore the other man to his heart's content, to elicit moans of pleasure and to hear his name breathed out in gasps and whispers. In dreams he could take hold of those slender hips and well muscled thighs and pull Florian tightly into his embrace, pressing together until separation seemed impossible and they were inhaling and exhaling the same warm breath.

 

In dreams, he could bury himself to the hilt in Florian's body, could cover that pink mouth with his own to swallow down the hitching gasps of mounting excitement, could curl his fingers around the erection that strained between them and stroke in rhythm so that they could go over together...

 

It felt so real, so entirely real in every sense. He felt the warmth of sweat-slicked skin, tasted the sweetness of wine in Florian's mouth, smelled the cool air and pine smoke scent of him, heard his own name being called in that heavenly voice - 

 

“Blaine?”

 

\- and, when he opened his eyes, startled at how real that had sounded, saw how close were Florian's eyes, those changeable skies full of worry and then surprise as Blaine fumbled thoughtlessly forward and gathered the lapels of his dressing gown in one hand, pulling him in for a sweet, melting kiss shot through with lightning.

 

Florian's hands came up to cup his face, winding long fingers through his disheveled curls and pulling Blaine in closer, deeper. The kiss was slightly clumsier than any of the ones in his dreams had been, but that didn't matter, didn't matter at all because this was wonderfully, gloriously  _ real _ . 

 

Blaine unclenched his hands from the lapels of the robe and slid them around the other man's chest to his back, pushing away from the desk so that he could part his knees and bring Florian in right against his body, wanting to feel his heartbeat and breathing and everything,  _ everything  _ that it would be possible to feel. He reached his hands up between Florian's and cradled the back of the man's head in his palms, breathing in sharply as hands tightened in his own hair and held on as if needing some kind of anchor in the turbulence.

 

He sucked Florian's lower lip into his mouth, teasing his teeth and the tip of his tongue gently over the skin before diving in for more like a man who wanted to drown in the most pleasurable ocean he could find.

 

“Blaine,” Florian groaned, pulling back only slightly before reaching forward again, straining to get as close as he could. “Blaine, I - ”

 

Hearing his name again snapped Blaine out of his haze of desire, brought him back to reality.  _ Reality _ . Where he was actually kissing Florian, where his own arousal was evident and pressed against the other man's torso, where he was scant moments away from tearing the robe away from that pale, muscled chest and tugging down the breeches that seemed to be the only other thing besides slippers that Florian even had on.

 

_No. Too soon._

 

Blaine pulled back, eyes wide with shock as he realized what he was doing. No self control, no self preservation, what was he thinking? He didn't even know the man! This guest under his roof who surely hadn't expected to be taken advantage of on his second night here!

 

Confusion fogged Florian's eyes as he tilted his head to look at Blaine. “Blaine? Is everything all right?”

 

He pushed away and stumbled to his feet, gazing back at Florian in apology and horror. “I'm so sorry, Florian. I didn't mean...I must go.”

 

“No, wait! Blaine - ”

 

But it was too late. Blaine had snatched up the candle he saw on one of the tables and fled the room, not stopping until he was safely locked away in his own chambers where he couldn't make any more of a mess of things than he already had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love, love, and more love for MotherGoddamn and her Beta work. Love for everyone who is reading and commenting and everything. Happy birthday to Rachel/Atomais/AndersonHummel on Tumblr! I hope this is a nice present.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine wrestles with his duty to responsibility and his desire for "Florian" in the wake of their first kiss; Kurt discovers that it's never a good idea to sneak up on an armed fighter.

Kurt allowed Blaine to avoid him for seven long, agonizing days.

 

The Viscount took meals alone in his chambers and spent all of his time either barricaded in his library or out in the sparring yard with his Marshal. He took very great care to ensure that he was never accessible to Kurt, who carried on with Amelia's singing lessons and resumed their midnight chats under a cloud of discontent that, unfortunately for him, did not escape Amelia's notice.

 

They were sitting back to back in the window seat of Dalton's music library quietly reading by lamplight when she must have decided that she couldn't stand it any longer. “You've been in a dreadful mood for the last four days, Florian,” she had announced, closing her book and tipping her head back onto his shoulder. “And Blaine is avoiding you.”

 

“Is he? I'd not noticed.” Kurt concentrated on the songbook he held, both because he actually wanted to learn the song in front of him and because he wanted her to leave off from discussing the topic.

 

He didn't know why he'd even thought he'd had a chance at the latter. “Yes, you have. Just today when he went through the dining hall on the way out to the sparring yard and he didn't even look at you, I saw your face. Your jaw gets tight and you turn red when you're angry, did you know?”

 

Yes, he knew. He pressed his lips together and kept reading, ignoring her.

 

Amelia swung around and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. “I won't let you ignore me. Surely you know by now that you can't.”

 

“I apologized for the dress incident,” Kurt had replied as mildly as he could, licking his finger before he turned over a page. “That does not mean I won't arrange a repeat of it, Amelia. Perhaps with that blue and silver gown you're so very fond of.”

 

“I'm not afraid of you,” she'd retorted. “You're the one who said it was a shame to ruin my dress, you clotheshorse.”

 

“Absolutely earned yourself a second slushing,” he mumbled back. Amelia refused to back down.

 

“We've been here only a few days and God only knows how much longer we'll stay, Florian.” Her tone of voice was maddeningly reasonable. “It behooves you to get along with Blaine.”

 

Kurt picked up a bookmark and slotted it into place, snapping the book shut with an angry thump. “Amelia, you're only doing this out of some voyeuristic prurience. I will not be the pawn in whatever game it is that you're playing. And if you won't leave it alone, I'll just go back to bed, I'm tired anyway.” He'd slipped off of the window seat then, wishing he didn't have to tiptoe away to avoid rousing the household. Flouncing or stalking off would have been be so much more effective.

 

And faster. Amelia had kept pace with him easily as he tried to get back to his room. “It's not prurience. I love Blaine, and I care a great deal about you,” she'd insisted. “I'm trying to help. Why are you two so angry at each other? What could have happened in just a few days?”

 

He'd whirled on her, cheeks burning with fury, and spat out the words before continuing his slow, silent journey to his room. “He kissed me.”

 

 _He kissed me._

 

It was the first time he'd said it aloud, and somehow it solidified what had happened, taking away the edge of unreality that surrounded his memory of the event. He pressed his fingers against lips that seemed to still feel the softness and the pressure of Blaine's, felt the phantom traces of the embrace that had encircled him and made him feel somehow protected in the midst of a raging inferno.

 

It had certainly done nothing to help him remember that he needed to remain detached and mindful of his mission. It had, however, managed to completely burn away any lingering attraction he'd had to the unattainable Earl of Hudson. That was...somewhat helpful. To whatever degree that his fantasies were now fully concentrated on the man he was meant to destroy was able to be helpful, at least.

 

In the wake of his whispered confession, Amelia had stood stock still for only a moment before shaking off her surprise and chasing him down the corridor, pulling him to a stop. “He kissed you! When! Where?”

 

“On the lips,” Kurt had quipped, earning himself a stomp on the foot that he had to suppress a howl of pained rage over. “Fine! In the library. The second night. I couldn't sleep...”

 

“So you went looking for Blaine?”

 

“I went for a _walk_. And I _found_ Blaine. He was asleep. I woke him up and...” He tilted up one shoulder in a shrug. “That was it.”

 

Amelia frowned. “Then why aren't you speaking?”

 

“I suppose he thought it was a mistake.” He'd kept his tone as light as he could, but she saw right through it and gave him a tight hug before retiring to her chambers without another word.

 

Three more days had passed, and now here he was, standing outside the door of the weapons training salle. He'd just seen David leave, so he was fairly certain Blaine was now alone. Alone, and expecting Kurt to be with Amelia for a lesson. He didn't know that Amelia had quite happily agreed to put off her lesson for a few hours to give Kurt time to confront him.

 

A plan that would only work if Kurt could muster up the courage to open the door and go inside before Blaine came out here and the opportunity was lost. Before he froze to death – spring was teasing its arrival, but it was still bitterly cold in late February, and he'd once again forgotten his cloak. His doublet was a thicker one for the weather, but still not heavy enough to simply stand around outside in. A shiver racked his bones and forced him to get a grip. _Just open the door, Kurt._

 

Steeling his nerves, he curled his fingers around the door handle and pulled it open, sliding quickly inside and shutting it behind him. The hinges were well oiled and made no sound, and it was the work of an instant to quietly drop the heavy wooden bar down to secure it so that no one else could come in. Best of all, Blaine hadn't heard him - with the rhythmic thump of his heavy wooden practice sword on a thick post, he was making too much noise to hear Kurt approaching at all.

 

Kurt realized too late that this was a mistake. Blaine whirled in place to execute some complicated maneuver and Kurt was close – too close. The wooden sword collided with Kurt's upper arm, sending him tumbling down onto the hard packed dirt floor.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Seven days. _Seven days_ since he had kissed Florian and fled the room.

 

Blaine had run back to his chambers and barred the door behind him, where he'd then lain awake for hours trying to come to terms with what he'd done.

 

Edward Blaine Anderson did not act on impulse. He considered, he thought, he planned. Even his affair with Thad had been pre-meditated. He thought in a tactical manner at all times, which was why his frequent verbal gaffes in front of Florian mortified him so.

 

But kissing Florian went well beyond a verbal gaffe. A kiss changed everything. It forced Blaine to make a decision he wasn't entirely sure he was ready to make.

 

To choose between his duty to his country and his own desires. He could well be ruined if they were caught together, and at such a delicate time, that was unwise. Lord Crawford had made it abundantly clear that he and no other could manage what was needed amongst the ranks of the lesser nobles. No one else would be accepted. Blaine had the familial connections, the intelligence, and the friendship needed amongst the most well armed of the lesser nobles.

 

To risk all of that, to risk career and the future of England for his own wants and needs – it would be catastrophic.

 

But he wanted, and wanted _badly_. He felt both sixteen and twenty at once, understanding clearly his responsibilities and yet wanting nothing of them if it meant denying himself the one thing he truly desired.

 

How could he have let this happen?

 

He knew, with sinking heart, that he would have to put the campaign ahead of himself, would have to subjugate his own selfish wanting. The good of England and the advancement of the Tudors was most important. Blaine knew this was the right thing to do, and yet it still felt like a knife through his heart. The sixteen year old boy that still resided within him was shouting that it was unfair, unfair, _unfair_ , but what could he do?

 

It would be difficult – he could not send Florian away, and there was no telling how long he and Amelia would need to remain under Blaine's roof. He would have to go through every day seeing that lovely face, hearing that unreal voice, how would he ever keep his resolve?

 

Blaine sat up in bed and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms tight around them and resting his troubled, weary head there. He would have to just do his level best to avoid the man as much as possible. It was the last thing he truly wanted, but there was nothing else for it.

 

Perhaps once this war was over, once everything was resolved...perhaps then he could indulge himself. He remained sleepless the rest of the night trying to convince himself of that.

 

He caught glimpses of Florian over the next few days. Just long enough to see his mouth go into a tight angry line. To see his body stiffen at the blatant rejection and ignoring. To wish he could run after the singer and tell him he was sorry, so sorry, but this was the best thing to do. For now. He wanted to beg forgiveness and understanding, but Blaine was sure that any contact at all would be a mistake he would absolutely not be able to come back from.

 

He threw himself into his work, every waking moment spent with David or Wes working on strategy. Communications went out daily to his friends and peers, striving to arrange a large gathering of nobles to begin the process of preparing for war. If he wasn't taking meals in his own rooms or at work in his study, he was in the salle and sparring yard working with David to refine his weapons technique.

 

During those days, Blaine did not even really see Amelia, which made him unhappy but was also something of a relief. He could see her growing increasingly frustrated with both himself and Florian. It would be only a matter of time before she confronted Florian and demanded to know what was going on, and then she would do her level best to confront Blaine.

 

On the seventh day, he escaped her in the nick of time as he vanished out to the salle with David to practice movement. He was getting better at controlling his urge to give in totally to instinct, much to his and David's satisfaction. Now that he knew for certain that he would be facing a battlefield, he needed to be sure he could concentrate and keep a cool head.

 

After two hours, David gave up. “Blaine, I've got to go. I need to confer with Wes on the next round of correspondence.”

 

“That's fine. I'll work with the pells. I've been meaning to for a few days now.”

 

David frowned and looked hard at Blaine, seeing the emotional walls that he'd put up and that his eyes were opaque, giving away nothing. “Are you going to tell me what's going on that you're working yourself into exhaustion every day and night?”

 

“No.” Blaine had his squire strip off his chestplate and then dismissed him, leaving him standing in a light mail shirt, shinguards, gauntlets, and his worn practice clothing. He yanked his helmet off and racked it, since he wouldn't need it for solo work. “It's nothing.”

 

David debated pressing the matter, but one look at Blaine as he picked up his weighted wooden pells sword changed his mind. He had no wish to have his head caved in for being a meddling fool. With a salute, he turned on his heel and departed the salle, leaving Blaine to face the stout wooden post that served as a drill target.

 

Now completely alone, he applied himself with focused determination to his drills, the thwack of wood on wood in a prescribed rhythm almost hypnotic, almost even soothing. Already sweating from his workout with David, now sweat dripped from his curls into his eyes, stinging and blinding him. He wiped away at it with his sleeved arm, wishing he'd thought to bind his hair back when he took his helmet off.

 

One more maneuver, then he'd stop and get some water and would tie his hair back. He wanted to practice a spin technique that would allow him to target two opponents at once. Stepping back, he raised his sword once more and attacked the pells, pulling away and spinning to face his imaginary second foe.

 

Too late, Blaine saw surprised blue-green eyes just before his heavily weighted wooden sword smashed into Florian's right arm and forced him to the ground, keening in agony.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

“Florian!” Blaine's voice was aghast as he tossed his weapon aside, landing on his knees at Kurt's side as the wooden blade clattered to the floor. “I didn't know you were there! What are you doing in here? Don't you know not to get so close to someone who's at weapons practice?”

 

Kurt struggled to sit up. His arm somehow managed to be numb and on fire all at once. It wasn't broken, though, he could tell. That was a relief. “I would have if I had exercised common sense,” he admitted, blinking back tears of pain. “It really should have occurred to me that it would be a poor notion to walk up behind someone with a weapon in their hand. A failing on my part.”

 

“You're hurt.” Blaine was clearly distressed and didn't know what to do. “I'm afraid to touch you, I don't want to hurt you more.”

 

“It's not broken, and besides, I've had worse from a horse.” Kurt shrugged and immediately regretted it as fire shot through the injured limb. “Not much worse, I confess, but worse. It's going to be fine. I just need a snow compress.”

 

“I'm sorry.” 

 

Kurt mustered a smile. “Don't be. It's my fault for being so determined to corner you and talk to you that I didn't think.”

 

“You wanted to – oh.” Blaine's expression shuttered immediately. “Well, then, you've been doubly thoughtless. Surely you're aware we've nothing to discuss.”

 

“That's not true,” Kurt protested, reaching to grab Blaine as the Viscount made to stand up. His hand landed on the other man's wrist and he held tight. “You kissed me, Blaine. You also seem to think it was a mistake.”

 

“I didn't mean for it to happen.” Blaine looked away, tugging to get his hand free, but it was a weak effort. “You're a guest in my home.”

 

“You obviously failed to notice my complete lack of pushing you away,” Kurt snapped. “Were your approach unwelcome, I would not have risked life and limb to come speak to you in here. You're being ridiculous.”

 

Blaine succeeded in yanking his arm away, standing to pace the room in agitation. He pulled off his gauntlet and ran a hand through his sweaty tangle of curls. “What do you want from me, Florian?”

 

“I'm not sure,” Kurt replied slowly, trying to consider the best way to express himself. Once again, he cursed Jesse St. James for casting him into this so entirely uncharted territory without any sort of direction or assistance. Not knowing what else to do, Kurt opted for an embarrassingly straightforward approach. 

 

“No. That's not entirely true. I want you to kiss me again.”

 

The look on Blaine's face was a mingling of confusion, anger, and what Kurt fervently hoped was desire. “Are you at all aware of the social and religious implications of such an event?”

 

“Yes,” Kurt replied, his stomach knotting up as he considered again what St. James had told him and what he had to do. “It doesn't matter.”

 

“You're a music teacher, of course it wouldn't to you,” Blaine sneered. “I, however, am of greater political importance. I do not have your freedom. I must ever take care to remain above reproach _no matter what I might want_.” His tone was bitter, icy cold and angry.

 

“You're admitting, then, that you wanted to kiss me?” Kurt pushed up to his feet, ignoring the laughable idea that he had any freedom, ignoring the pain this caused. He moved to stand and lock eyes with Blaine. It astounded him how his new persona seemed to impart such boldness to him.

 

“Of course I did. But it doesn't matter. What I want is of no importance in the greater service of my country.” The words were strong, courageous, self-sacrificing – all attributes that were weakened by the unhappiness and lack of conviction behind them. Kurt decided to press forward.

 

Quite apart from his mission, Kurt very much wished to kiss Blaine himself.

 

“It does matter, though,” he persisted, willing the lump in his throat to recede before it caused his voice to break. His next words were too important for words. They were part of what had fueled his anger these last days. “It matters to me. You can't just take my first kiss from me and then act as if it were a mistake.”

 

Blaine let out his breath in a rush, eyes going wide and dark with surprise. “What?”

 

“I'd never been kissed,” Kurt replied, very simply, very honestly. “You were my first.”

 

“Oh.” The Viscount moved to a bench at the side of the sparring circle and sat down heavily. “Florian, I didn't...”

 

“I quite liked it, and it seemed at the time that you did, too – until you ran off...” Kurt trailed off, thinking. “Whether or not you'd like to repeat it, I would at least like you to not think of it as a mistake, and please, stop treating me like a plague carrier.” He smiled, but weakly – his feelings were hurt almost as much as his arm. “Also, you took my candle when you left. That was unkind, I had to make my way back to my room in the dark. Very dangerous.”

 

Blaine looked up, apology in his eyes. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For all of it. For the way it happened, for how I behaved afterward, for your arm. You wouldn't have gotten hurt if I hadn't forced your hand.”

 

“I wouldn't have gotten hurt if I'd stopped to _think_ for a moment,” Kurt corrected, a rueful smile turning his lips up. “And that reminds me – I need that snow compress.” He cast his eyes about the room. “Do you have a clean cloth?”

 

“I have.” A chest near the bench yielded a stack of old, clean towels that the fighters used to clean up with after practicing. “Emma cannot abide the way it smells in here, but her determination to ensure that every inch of Dalton House is perfectly spotless wins out, so this is kept full.” Blaine tugged out one of the towels. “Let me divest myself of this armor and I'll help you.”

 

“I would appreciate that.” Kurt watched in awe as Blaine moved to the armor rack and began stripping pieces off. 

 

“This won't take me long. Not like it would if I were in full armor.” Blaine smiled, his teeth flashing white in his sun-darkened face. “I'd have to find my squire again, it would take ages. All things considered, apart from the single misstep, your timing was excellent for this.”

 

The ease that had fallen between them on the first day Kurt had arrived at Dalton was returning, and he felt a knot uncoil in his chest. All was not lost. All was still quite confusing and he wasn't sure how to fumble things back into the direction that had seemed so promising when Blaine was kissing him, but it was, at the very least, not lost. He breathed in, the action feeling easier than it had in days.

 

Quite apart from wanting to kiss Blaine for reasons unrelated to his mission, the mission was still there, along with the indelible mental image of his father being tortured by Jesse St. James.

 

Kurt realized Blaine was staring at him, that he hadn't responded to his statement. “I wouldn't mind helping take that off of you,” he offered, then realized what he'd said. His cheeks flamed a brilliant pink as Blaine threw his head back and laughed, loud and joyous and warm.

 

“I cannot tell you, Florian, how glad I am that I am not the only one who makes thoughtless innuendos.” 

 

“They sound better coming from you,” Kurt mumbled, feeling like a gangly boy in a way he hadn't done in years. It didn't help that Blaine was simply dressed in boots, hose, and a loose shirt that was damp with sweat from his practice session, causing it to cling to his body in ways Kurt found deeply interesting.

 

“I would debate that.” Blaine stripped off the last shin guard and racked it, picking up the towel and walking over to Kurt. “Come, let's gather some snow and get it on that arm. I'm sure it's already tightening up.”

 

“A bit,” Kurt admitted. “Do you suppose Miss Pillsbury has some sort of poultice that I could apply?”

 

“Undoubtedly. And since you helped her clean the rug and you don't terrorize her as I do, she will probably even make it up for you.” Blaine smiled, a touch of guilt there. “I'm afraid she finds me quite difficult.”

 

“I cannot imagine where she might have gotten that notion, my lord,” Kurt drawled, dry as bone. “Surely all of the most dignified nobles go around dumping snow down ladies' dresses.”

 

“A fair hit.” Blaine unbarred the salle door and held it open for Kurt before following him out and closing it up behind him. “Here, there's a bench by this door. Sit. We won't be out here long.”

 

Kurt perched on the edge of the cold stone bench, watching as Blaine scooped snow into the cloth. Deftly, he twisted the bundle shut and tied it off, beckoning for Kurt to follow him into the manor.

 

“We'll go to my study. There's a fire in there and no one will disturb us while I tend to you.”

 

They slipped their boots off at the door, pulling on slippers and shuffling in companionable silence through the corridors. Before long, they'd arrived in the study, where true to Blaine's word a merry fire was indeed blazing away. “Here,” the Viscount murmured, gently guiding Kurt to his desk. “Lean here.”

 

He did, while at the same time trying to fumble with the lacing on his doublet. It was difficult with only one good hand to use – his injured arm was stiffening and aching more by the moment, and whenever he bent it, lines of pain shot through it. He was so intent on his work that it startled him when Blaine's hands covered his.

 

“Let me,” he said quietly, only a small hitch in his voice. He tugged Kurt's hands away and loosened the laces carefully. When he took the open lapels and tried to ease it down, however, a groan of torment escaped from Kurt's lips. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

 

“It's all right.” Kurt clamped his lips together and tried to breathe in and out, deep calming breaths. “I think we're going to have to work together so that you pull it off of me quickly.”

 

“I don't want to hurt you more - “ Blaine was uncertain, his fingers frozen around the fabric that he held.

 

“Well, that compress is no good through a padded doublet, so Blaine, please, just – just please, take this off before the damn snow melts.” Kurt bit his lip and took one more deep breath to steel himself before Blaine yanked the doublet down his arms, causing a wildfire of agony that made him want to scream. With effort, he held back.

 

“Are you sure it's not broken?”

 

“Quite. I wouldn't be able to move my arm if it were.” Kurt flexed the protesting limb, feeling his face flush white as it throbbed. 

 

“You can't really move it now,” Blaine pointed out, moving forward to try and roll up his shirt sleeve.

 

“I can, I simply don't want to,” Kurt corrected, peering over to see if he could see how terrible the damage was. The livid edges of a long bruise showed from beneath the rolled up shirt cuff, violent red and purple. Blaine tried to push up the sleeve further, eliciting another pained whine from Kurt, and then shook his head.

 

“It's no good,” he said, stepping back with an inscrutable look in his eyes. “You...ah...you...your shirt. It...it will have to come off.”

 

One, two, three deep breaths. Could this get any more awkward and difficult? Kurt closed his eyes. “All right. Let me just - ” He slowly eased the sleeve back down and worked his injured arm out of it, biting back whimpers and blinking back tears. “There. I'll need you to help get it off the rest of the way.” His face went back to burning apple red, a tone he could see matched on Blaine.

 

“Let's just – I'll just pull it right off, quickly, as I did with the doublet. Is that all right?”

 

“Do it before we die of embarrassment, Blaine.”

 

“Right. Right.” Now it was Blaine taking the deep breath, just before he seized the shirt hem and dragged it up and off over Kurt's head, tugging the other sleeve away from his arm. 

 

The first place their eyes both went was to the injured area, and both of them sucked in hissing air at the sight of it. The weighted wooden sword had landed a solid blow across Kurt's upper arm and shoulder, raising a large bruise the color of blood and twilight there. It looked quite precisely as painful as it felt, and Kurt saw Blaine's eyes sheen with tears at the sight of it.

 

“Florian, I am so awfully sorry, I truly, truly am.” The words tumbled from Blaine's mouth in a rush as he grabbed at the compress, laying it against the bruise as gently as he could. “I don't know how I can make it up to you.”

 

“You can stop apologizing.” Kurt's voice was heavy with weariness. He was quite certain that no one anywhere apologized quite as much as did Blaine Anderson. “I know you didn't mean to do it, Blaine, and I appreciate you helping me.”

 

“Even if I had to strip your clothing off to do it?” Blaine's tone was teasing, but when Kurt met his eyes, they were that melting honey-hazel again, the shade that Kurt was already coming to recognize as the color of Blaine's desire. 

 

He swallowed. “I don't mind.”  _Really, I really,_ _**really** _ _ do not.  _ “I wouldn't let you take my clothes off if I minded it.” 

 

Watching Blaine turn even more red – something Kurt hadn't thought possible – was entertaining, endearing, and arousing, and Kurt vowed to keep going with the boldness he was digging from some hidden inner well of confidence he'd never known he had. It seemed to be the best approach to take in order to attract the man.

 

But every moment that passed between them made it more difficult for Kurt to remember that he had a purpose in doing this, a purpose that had nothing to do with his heart, which was getting ever more troublesomely involved.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

For his own part, Blaine was standing in a roil of confusion, desire, responsibility, guilt, and worry as he held the compress to Florian's arm. He was trying very hard not to stare at the smooth, well muscled chest before him, trying not to clutch at the sculpted muscles of the arm he held. He was absolutely trying not to wonder what the  _ rest _ of Florian looked like unclothed, and how he could manage to arrange to see it.

 

The sickening thump his sword had made against Florian's only lightly protected arm still echoed in his ears. He could still see, in his mind's eye, the wide, stricken eyes as the man tumbled to the ground, grabbing at his arm and letting go with a thready hiss of pain as soon as he'd made contact with the injury.

 

“I'm sor-” Remembering Florian's admonition, he stopped and shook his head. “You're lucky your doublet was padded. I think your arm _would_ have been broken otherwise.”

 

“Perhaps.” Florian shrugged, very lightly. “I should have counted the cost a small one in the service of forcing you to speak to me again.”

 

“But why?” Blaine hoped the singer would be able to better articulate their confusing attraction to each other. “You don't even know me very well, nor I you.”

 

“It doesn't seem to matter,” Florian replied, keeping his eyes cast down. “I've been drawn to you since the first day. I didn't expect it and I'm sure you can guess from my previously kissless state that I'm not at all sure what to do with it.” He peered up from under his long lashes and smiled sweetly at Blaine, who felt as if his heart would stop. “But I do not oppose it.”

 

Blaine pressed the melting compress closer, tracing his fingers around the bare skin above and below it. “I seem to care a great deal about you already, Florian. I do not wish to harm that.”

 

A ghost of something unreadable flashed through Florian's eyes before he spoke again. “You do not strike me as a man who is afraid to take chances.”

 

Blaine could not stop a surprised chuckle from emerging. “You're quite bold and insightful for someone who had not been kissed before a few days ago.”

 

“I have lately come to the conclusion that being shy and retiring is a potentially fatal course of action,” was the surprising and wry reply. “If one wishes to accomplish something, then one must just do that – but if it makes you feel better, I do die a little of embarrassment on the inside to do it.”

 

“Ah, and so the angel proves himself to be human after all.” Blaine's voice was teasing, but then he froze as he realized what he'd just allowed to slip.

 

Florian met his eyes with an astonished gaze. “Angel? I'm no angel. Far from.” His laugh was a slightly bitter cluster of broken musical notes. “I'm merely a music teacher who once upon a time was a stableman. I could not be more human if I tried.”

 

Blaine fiddled with the edges of the damp cloth in his hands before removing it from Florian's arm and taking it to hang on the fire grate to dry. With his back still turned away from the other man, he murmured softly, “I think you're beautiful. You seem otherworldly. Sometimes when I see you out walking with Amelia, I think that you should have wings, that you're not of this world and never have been.”

 

He was surprised to feel hands on his shoulders, turning him around – once again, he hadn't heard Florian walking up behind him. The singer's eyes were a clear leaf green, the color of the spring that was soon to come to England. Blaine felt his hands gathered up in Florian's slender fingers, watched as he pulled them up to his lips and planted a soft kiss to the knuckles. He said nothing.

 

In that moment, Blaine changed his decision – choosing the option that was for himself and only himself. He _wanted_ this beautiful, enigmatic man, who had made it clear that he did not oppose being wanted by Blaine. He wanted to kiss him, to hold him, to take him to his bed and make him whimper and moan. He wanted to see in reality everything he had experienced in his dreams.

 

Pushing away all of the long-ago objections from people who were not him, putting himself first for once – he wanted this. He would have it. They would be discreet, Blaine was older now and knew better how he could keep this secret and safe.

 

He could serve himself as well as his country. No one need know.

 

Blaine gently extracted his fingers and reached up to cup Florian's jaw with them, skimming his thumbs over those high cheekbones, watching in fascination as spots of pink rose on each one. Slowly, never breaking eye contact with those eyes of spring, he leaned in and softly, sweetly pressed his lips to Florian's in a kiss that was much more gentle than their first, but was devoid of not a single drop of desire.

 

Pulling back, he gazed deep into Florian's eyes, marveling at the wonder there. He moved one hand down to catch at the hand of the man's uninjured arm, keeping the other one touching that marvelous face. “There,” he managed to get out without his voice cracking. “That's how your first kiss should have been.”

 

Florian's heartbreakingly sweet smile made his heart sing. “Are you willing to show me how the second one should go?” he asked with playful hope in his voice.

 

“If you will have dinner with me in my rooms this night,” Blaine offered with his own smile, “I think I could be persuaded to provide a demonstration, yes.” He looked at Florian's bruised arm, the smile quickly becoming a worried frown. “But first, you truly must go see Emma for a poultice. I don't want to be afraid to touch you and hurt you.”

 

“We cannot have that.” Florian made his way back to the desk and picked up his shirt. “Help me dress?”

 

“It would be both a pleasure and a curse,” Blaine replied with a new grin as he joined the man and moved to assist him.

 

So intent were they on their task that they did not realize that Thad had been surreptitiously watching from the corridor for several moments, jealousy and agony twisting his face into an unrecognizable mask. With a whispered oath, he made his way quietly away, wondering what he could do to drive this troublesome singer away from Dalton House.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My continued and eternal love to MotherGoddamn for her tireless beta work, and of course continued love to all of you who read and appreciate this work.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's Kurt's turn to make a very important decision regarding Blaine.

“Blaine. I must leave.” Kurt looked up from beneath Blaine, pushing his hands against his lover's bare chest. “Amelia will return soon for her lesson and I cannot be anything less than impeccably put together or she will know we have been up to something.”

 

Blaine rolled to his side, wrapping his arms around Kurt and pulling him closer. “No. Just a moment or two more, please. We never get to do this in the daytime. I feel like a cat in the sunshine.”

 

They lay together on Blaine's bed, securely locked into his chambers on a rare late afternoon where they'd had a pocket of time to indulge themselves in each other. Alice had gone into Oxford with Thad to visit a seamstress about a new gown. Wes and David were in Blaine's study finalizing the arrangements for the upcoming visit of Barons Carrick and Mowbray. Amelia had gone to Crawford Keep for a short while to visit her sorely missed harpsichord and her parents, her sisters having gone on to their aunt's home in the north.

 

Upon discovering all of this, Blaine had instructed Emma to ensure that due to a headache, he was to be left alone in his chambers until further notice. Then he'd promptly sought Kurt out in the music library, seizing his wrist and hauling him upstairs before he could do so much as ask, “Where are we going?”

 

They'd spent the last two hours in a tangle of kisses and roaming hands, having disposed of their doublets and shirts with a haste that could only be considered unseemly. Kurt had discovered in the last three weeks that all of his fantastical wonderings about what Blaine looked like shirtless were utterly eclipsed by the reality of the man's well-muscled chest and abdomen, dusted with dark hair that began thick at the pectoral muscles and then thinned into an arrowlike trail leading down into his hose.

 

Kurt had spent endlessly pleasurable moments tracing that trail to the point where it disappeared below the waist of the woolen tights, pressing kisses to every inch of skin he saw and then working his way back up again to the stubbled skin of Blaine's throat and chin. The roughness there rubbed his lips raw, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

 

He had the entirety of Blaine's gorgeous body at his complete disposal most any time he liked. Not that he'd taken full advantage of that fact, but he had it. It was a heady feeling, to want and be wanted. Every touch he laid upon Blaine was returned tenfold as his lover took the time to show him the marvels and wonders of their bodies.

 

Blaine hitched his leg over Kurt's and pulled in even closer, mouthing at the spot just below Kurt's ear that made him arch his hips up and squirm in arousal. “Stay a little longer. Then come back to me tonight,” came the heated whisper in his ear. “You could stay the night.”

 

It was a temptation that Kurt was hard pressed to resist, especially as Blaine's hand slipped down his chest and down his leg, trailing back up to cup his fingers gently over Kurt's erect member, pressing and kneading until Kurt felt his eyes start to roll back into his head. He hadn't allowed their heated kissing sessions to go further than this, had not yet felt Blaine's hand on his cock with nothing between them. And to his surprise, he very much did want to – despite his virginity, Kurt had discovered that he was a sensualist, loving and reveling in the touch and feel of passion. He eagerly drank in the lessons in pleasure that Blaine gave him, returning them to the best of his clumsy new ability.

 

But going further put a definite timetable on the completion of his mission. The two reports he had dutifully sent off to Jesse indicated that he and Blaine were still at the flirtatious stages but progressing forward. Jesse's responses had been impatient and full of more threats. He would _have_ to move further soon, a prospect he both welcomed and dreaded.

 

 _This was supposed to be a simple mission, Renner,_ Jesse's latest letter had informed him. Kurt could almost hear his sneer.  _You need not court the man, simply bend over for him a few times and notify me when there's a pattern established so that I can move someone in to catch you in the act! This should not be that difficult. By the time I was your age, I was tumbling women two and three times a day. Get moving. I don't need to remind you of the consequences, I hope?_

 

No. No, he certainly did not.

 

Kurt had taken to keeping the letters after burning the first one, so that he had evidence in the remote chance that he could find a way out of this without damaging Blaine or getting his father hurt. It made his stomach churn to know they were in his room, their poisonous contents hidden safely away in one of his songbooks, but he knew not what else to do. He had not expected to be so drawn to Blaine. He had not expected to become so attached, so quickly.

 

Yet not for one moment could he forget his father.

 

Blaine's hand stilled as if he sensed the turmoil in his lover's thoughts. “Florian?”

 

Kurt twisted in his arms, picking up the wandering hand and laying a soft kiss in the palm. “Blaine. I really must go.”

 

“But tonight?” Blaine leaned up on his elbow, biting his lip and possessing all the hope in the world in his eyes. He tugged his hand away and brought it to Kurt's cheek, leaning in for a warm kiss that slowly grew in intensity as his tongue probed inside Kurt's mouth, swirling against the soft skin there, making Kurt wonder what that mouth would feel like wrapped around his cock, licking and sucking and -

 

As gently as he could, he pulled away, kissing Blaine's lips once more before slipping from the bed and grabbing his clothing. He was still moving a bit stiffly from his injury – beyond the bruising, the muscles and tendons of his arm were still sore and tender – but he was now able to dress himself without wanting to scream.

 

Well, except in sexual frustration.

 

 _I can't, I can't,_ he reminded himself with regret. _If I let it go there then I have to tell St. James and ruin it all, and I don't want to, not yet, I want this idyll to last as close to forever as I can make it_ , Kurt thought desperately, feeling like the worst son alive and the most selfish bastard on the face of the earth – which was saying something, given that Jesse St. James existed. Tears stung at the back of his eyes as he laced his doublet shut. He blinked them away before turning to face Blaine.

 

Handsome, passionate, amazing Blaine, whom he wanted so very, very much that it took his breath away.

 

Blaine hadn't moved off of the bed; he was still propped up on his elbow and gazing steadily at Kurt. “Tonight?” he repeated, clearly not leaving off until he got an answer.

 

“I can't, Blaine. I'm sorry. I'm just not...”

 

“...ready. I know.” Blaine groaned and threw himself over onto his back, stretching his arms over his head. “But you know, do you not, how much I want you?”

 

“Every time we meet like this.” Kurt smiled and kept his tone teasingly light. “Unless what is in your hose is not a reliable indicator of your desire.”

 

“I pledge to you that it is.” Blaine sat up and swung his own legs over the edge of the bed, groping for his boots and tugging them on. “And unless I am gravely mistaken, the feeling is mutual.”

 

Kurt ducked his head, casting his eyes to the floor to locate his boots. “It is.”

 

“Then why?” Before he registered what was happening, Blaine was in front of him, having found Kurt's boots first and holding them away from him. “Why will you not stay with me?”

 

 _Because I am falling too hard, too fast, and if we were to lie together it would be the beginning of the end, it would destroy you and would break my heart and why, why, why must it be thus?_ Kurt gave no indication of his despairing inner monologue, however, falling back on what he'd chosen to use as his excuse when Blaine began to press harder for them to spend the night together. “Amelia will catch us. Or me, rather. And you know that it is nigh impossible to lie to her and not get caught out.”

 

Blaine frowned. “She does not rise before the rest of us, you can go back to your room before anyone awakes and none shall be the wiser.”

 

“It's not that, it's...” Ah, he felt like a colossal ass revealing Amelia's secret, but he knew Blaine wouldn't mind, and _something_ had to be sacrificed to the greater cause of saving Blaine for as long as he could. “We meet, in the middle of the night.  She's already getting suspicious of our friendly behavior towards each other. If she were to come to my room and I were not there, or if she were to catch me coming out of your room while she was going to mine – do you see where I go with this? I thought you wanted to keep this a secret.”

 

“I do. Damn.” Blaine shoved his boots into his hand and frowned again in thought. “So that's you two, then, in the music library?”

 

Kurt sat down in one of the leather chairs by the window to pull his boots on and glanced at Blaine in surprise. “It is. You knew, then? How? We were careful to clean up.”

 

Blaine chuckled under his breath. “You'll have to wake up early in the morning to fool Emma Pillsbury. You didn't fluff up the carpet pile from where you sat or walked. She brushes the carpet in that room out every night and she couldn't understand why the pile was crumpled and folded.” He snorted. “She has been on a _rampage_ for nearly a month, wondering who's been undoing her careful work overnight.”

 

“Surely she knows that the room is used during the day and her handiwork is ruined anyway?” Kurt was mystified as he dragged his other boot on.

 

“Florian, I learned as a small boy to not question Emma's thoughts and motives. I have a clean house. I like it that way. Can we not leave it at that?”

 

“As you like.” Kurt got to his feet and paced over to a still-shirtless Blaine, wrapping one arm around his waist and using the hand of the other to tangle into those silky curls and pull his head forward for a kiss. “Will we see you at dinner, then?”

 

“For a brief time. Then I must meet with my advisors. We have important people coming soon for an extended visit.” Blaine hesitated before curling his fingers into Kurt's doublet and gazing up into his eyes, his own eyes so earnest and full of want. “This is why I wanted you to stay the night, Florian. If we do not take advantage of it now, I know not when we can be together again.”

 

Kurt felt his resolve wavering. Blaine slipped around behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist, leaning up to whisper again into Kurt's ear. “There's so much I can show you – do to you. Do  _for_ you. If you'd only let me...” Fast as lightning, before Kurt knew what he was doing, Blaine's hand dipped into Kurt's hose for the first time, quickly locating his reawakening manhood and encircling it with his fingers. He began to squeeze and stroke it to full erection, causing Kurt to groan low in his throat and sag back against his lover. One hand rose of its own volition to cup the back of Blaine's head; the other wrapped back around to claw at his buttocks.

 

“Imagine,” Blaine rasped, making Kurt bite his lip, “just think, if you stayed with me tonight, I could do this for hours, as many times as you could stand it, I can do it with my hands, my mouth...”

 

“Blaine...”

 

“I could fill you with my cock,” Blaine continued, giving an extra squeeze to Kurt's straining member and grinding his own up against Kurt's backside. “I can make you come in a dozen different ways, Florian, if you'd only stay with me the night...”

 

“Blaine – _Blaine –_ I'm going to - ”

 

Abruptly, Blaine pulled his hand free and turned an astonished, achingly aroused Kurt to face him and he kissed him hard, biting down on Kurt's lower lip with a ferocity that astounded him. “No, you're not.” Blaine's tone was gentle, but his eyes burned dark with desire. “Not until tonight. Please, Florian. Say you will.”

 

Kurt wanted to weep from the frustration of it, from being brought to the peak only to be hauled back before he could go over. He was sorely, sorely tempted, if only because he wanted to see  _Blaine_ lose all control as Kurt touched him, licked him, and sucked him. They would have hours – surely that was enough for both of them to lose themselves in a protracted loop of pleasure, to give in to the joy of lips, tongue, fingers -

 

 _I will start sending you your father's fingers, one at a time._

 

The memory of St. James' horrific first missive sent ice through Kurt's veins, and he pulled away from Blaine with a gasp. “I can't. I'm sorry - ”

 

He bolted for the door, pausing only briefly to listen and make sure there was no one in the corridor before he pulled it open and ran. As he stumbled back to his room, he cursed his weak, selfish nature that had him so, so close to capitulating.

 

 _I am damned if I do, and damned if I do not,_ he thought, closing his door behind him and slumping against it in despair.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Blaine stood dumbfounded and shirtless where Kurt had left him, gaping at the open door his lover had just disappeared through.

 

“Was it something I said?” he wondered aloud to no one in particular, striding to locate his shirt and doublet so that he could make himself presentable for dinner. With no small degree of aggravation, he yanked the linen shirt over his head, tucking it into his hose and trying to ignore his frustrated erection. Four years of self-imposed celibacy and a gorgeous man living under his roof that he could kiss for hours – this was not at all right. Not in the slightest.

 

 _Why_ would Florian not stay the night with him? Blaine had been serious about the things he could show the man – things he wanted to do and have done to him in turn. Perhaps he'd been a bit overbold, but he knew they both clearly felt the strong attraction strung between them like taut ropes. Florian kissed with no less eagerness than he did, grew no less erect as they pressed and ground against each other. And yet every time, they stopped just short of climax, leaving them both panting and frustrated.

 

It was not a happy way to live, and Blaine wanted an end to it before it drove them both mad. Soon, Nicholas and Jeffrey would be staying here for a time, Blaine would be sunk in campaign planning, and then he and Florian couldn't even so much as  _look_ at each other. Blaine ground his teeth in frustration to think of it.

 

“Blaine?”

 

His head snapped up at the sound of a voice calling his name from the corridor; to his annoyance, it was only Thad.

 

“Yes, Thad?”

 

“I've come to tell you that the Baroness and I have returned...” He trailed off, taking in Blaine's uncustomary state of dishevelment. “...ah, would you be needing assistance to dress for dinner?”

 

“No,” Blaine sulked. “I shall wear this, I'll only be at the table for a brief time, I don't care.”

 

“Their Ladyships - ”

 

“It matters not to me what Aunt Alice nor Amelia may think, Thad.” Blaine knew he was snapping and didn't care. “This is _my_ home, thank you, and if I should choose to take dinner in the same clothing in which I broke my fast, then I will do so! Am I making myself perfectly clear?”

 

His voice had risen to a shout by the end, and Thad began to back away from the door, clearly affronted. “As the finest crystal, my Lord,” he bit out before spinning on his heel and stalking away. Blaine groaned and dropped his face into his palm. He was doing rather an excellent job of driving off lovers both former and current. It was a skill that he thought, quite frankly, he could well do without.

 

Shrugging his doublet on, he gazed out of his window and let his thoughts wander as he laced it up. He knew Florian wanted their bedroom activities to progress –  _one's cock cannot tell lies_ , he thought with a certain smugness. But always, always they would get to a certain point and the man would freeze up, wriggling to extract himself from Blaine's embrace and making excuses as to why he had to leave. And Blaine, being a gentleman rather than a jackass on most days, let him go, tried not to press the issue too hard.

 

But he wanted more, so much more. The sight of Florian beneath him, skin flushed, hair mussed, and lips swollen from kissing had been everything and more than he'd dreamed. His smooth chest, shaped as if cut from marble but warm as sunlight, how Blaine enjoyed covering it with wet, sucking kisses that left marks of deep purple behind, like blooming violets on a field of snow. He loved to whisper filthy thoughts into those shell-like ears and watch the tips turn pink with mingled desire and embarrassment. Loved most of all the feel of Florian's rising erection under his fingers, now that he'd experienced it without the customary barrier of hose between it and his seeking, needing hand.

 

Blaine groaned to himself as his own cock stirred.  _No. Not now,_ he told it fiercely, not realizing he'd said the words aloud until -

 

“Blaine?”

 

His name was called for the second time from the corridor, but this summoner was much more welcome. “Hello, pretty.”

 

Amelia stood in the doorway, a curious and amused smile on her face. “Is there a reason you're talking to yourself?”

 

“No, there really is not,” Blaine grumbled, raking his fingers through his tumbled curls in a doomed effort to tidy them. “Shall I escort you to dinner?”

 

“That would be lovely.” She took his arm as he joined her in the hallway, closing his door behind him. “Did you have a nice nap?”

 

“Nap? Oh. Oh, yes, it was very refreshing.” He'd forgotten the excuse he'd instructed Emma to make. “Got rid of my nagging headache quite handily. How was home?”

 

“Unchanged, but then it's been only a month.” Her smile was a touch on the rueful side. “Apart from the thick layer of dust on my harpsichord. Poor thing. I think when I left they just shut that room up and ignored it. A pity there's not another Miss Pillsbury in the world.”

 

“It is true that she would never let that happen.” Blaine ushered Amelia down the winding staircase. “And yet I feel that she and your mother would be at odds more often than not, and your father would flee the country rather than be subject to Emma's standards on when one should wear shoes indoors.”

 

Amelia chortled in delight. “You are not wrong.” Raising her nose into the air, she sniffed. “Mmm. Emma's lamb stew. Delightful. I hope that she saves some for Florian.”

 

“Why would she have to?” Blaine asked, confused. “He'll be at dinner with us, I'm sure.”

 

“Oh, no,” Amelia shook her head in negation. “I've just seen him. He's not feeling well, he's decided to stay in his room until he feels better.”

 

 _Well, damnation_ , Blaine thought, hiding his disappointment and frustration behind a sympathetic smile and idle chatter as he escorted Amelia to her seat next to Florian's empty chair.  _So close, and yet so far._

 

He would figure out the key to dispelling his reticent lover's doubts if it was the last thing he ever did.

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Emma had in fact sent a chambermaid up to Kurt's room with a tray holding a bowl of her lamb stew, a crusty heel-end of bread, butter, and a flagon of cider. She was much enamored of the conscientious young singer who tried to be helpful and never made fun of her as her proper Lord did. After only a month at Dalton, Kurt could ask nearly any favor of Emma and have it granted.

 

That came in handy at times like this, when he couldn't face Blaine and determined himself to be unable to face Baroness Linwood and Amelia just to make small talk. He wasn't terribly hungry, if he was being honest, but the stew did smell good, and Emma would pitch a fit if he didn't eat at least half of it. Picking up the bread, he scooped a bit of stew onto it and shoveled it into his mouth.

 

 _I can't keep running from Blaine forever_ , he thought as he poked at his dinner.  _I know I can't. I know I don't_ _**want** _ _ to. I want him, and so badly.  _ Unhappily, he pulled one knee up to his chest in his chair and scooped in another bite of stew.  _ But the minute we lie together, so begins the endgame. _

 

But if he didn't, his father's life was at risk.

 

He'd never thought his mission would be easy, but he'd had the idea that it wouldn't be complicated with emotions. Now he was slung between a very real desire and his equally real terror, with no safety net to catch him if he made a fatal misstep. He had to balance his father's safety with his own selfish, unexpected desires.

 

If there were no emotions involved, perhaps Kurt would have been done with his distasteful mission by now instead of seeking to prolong the pleasurable parts of it as long as he could. He could have been leagues away from Raglan Manor with his father safely in tow instead of trying to figure out how he could get out of this without losing himself, his father, or Blaine. If he'd been able to stay detached, he wouldn't end up losing Amelia, the first real friend he'd ever had.

 

 _ But you didn't, and now you must reap the consequences. _ Blaine would not remain understanding and patient forever, he was sure – not that he would become violent, Kurt knew, only they would have arguments as Kurt kept putting him off and then he would end up dismissed for some faintly valid reason. A double failure on his part that would get his father killed.

 

“Curse you to the deepest pits of _hell_ , Jesse St. James,” Kurt growled, pushing his hands into his hair and pulling in agitation. He rocked back and forth as he tried for the thousandth time to try to find a way, any way out of this. He couldn't keep putting St. James off -

 

Wait.

 

 _Why not?_

 

Kurt sat up straight in his chair, racking his brain. He was already shifting the timeline of his relationship with Blaine in his correspondence with St. James, dating well behind where they actually were. And who was to say how long it could take to establish a pattern of sexual activity that would be reliable enough to arrange a raid? Why, that could take weeks.

 

It wouldn't buy him much time – a fortnight at most, he guessed. But that might be enough time for him to find some way out of it, be it to forcibly have his father removed from Raglan Castle or...well, thought it would be a mortal sin, he wouldn't mind at all having St. James killed. According to the Steward, Kurt was doomed to hell anyway for his “unnatural preferences,” what was one more sin on top of that, if it enabled the rest of his life to be free of the man's diabolical influence?

 

He would likely have to confess everything to Blaine, but...that might not be too terrible, he reasoned. He had kept St. James' letters and would be receiving several more. St. James undoubtedly thought he had Kurt cowed enough by the threats to his father that he'd never even think of rebelling.  _ More fool you, St. James, _ Kurt thought grimly.

 

It might not work. There was every chance it wouldn't and that all would be lost.

 

But his father had said so many times in his life,  _ No one can shove us around, Kurt. Not unless we let them. _

 

He owed it to his father to seize this one remote chance and run with it. For his father, he would commit blackmail. For his father, Blaine, and Amelia, he would fight to the finish.

 

If at the same time he was able to take hold of one bright spot of Paradise for his own, even for a very short while, and there was a chance at coming out of  _ that _ with what he wanted – surely that was not being greedy. Surely he had earned that much.

 

His decision was made.

 

Gazing out of the window, he saw that it was much too early to try to find Blaine. It was barely after twilight now, and the household would only just be finishing dinner. Kurt had managed to beg off from his late night chat with Amelia by feigning illness, so that was nothing to worry over. Blaine, though, would go to his study with David after dinner, as he did every night, and they would be locked away in there for hours.

 

But then David would coax him into retiring to his chambers, and then – yes. Then, Kurt would be able to slip over and knock on his door...and hope for the best.

 

Finishing his dinner, he set the tray aside on his desk and set his mind to refining his amorphous idea. He considered and discarded the idea of getting Noah Puckerman further involved – the man had made it clear that his only interest was in keeping his wife alive. That was, naturally, something Kurt understood. It left him without an ally, however. That was unfortunate. For a moment, he bit his lip and doubted his capability to do this. He was a mere stableman masquerading as a music teacher. Who was he to think he could outwit a Steward, save his father, and keep his lover and his friend?

 

 _I have to try._

 

In risking everything, he could lose it all – or win it all.

 

Another glance out of the window showed that true night had fallen at some point while he'd been deep in thought. He scrambled up onto his chair and peered down at where he knew Blaine's study to be.

 

Only firelight. The lamp had been put out.

 

Kurt took one, two, three deep breaths and picked up his candle. He'd changed into his robe and sleeping breeches after his dinner tray had been sent up, so there was nothing more that he needed to do.

 

Except to go.

 

He left his room and ghosted down the corridors to the family wing of the manor, passing Amelia and Alice's rooms as quietly as he could. At the end of the long hall was Blaine's door. Kurt nerved himself and rapped lightly.

 

Blaine, clad himself in nothing more than sleeping breeches, answered, his hair curling in all directions and his hazel eyes deeply confused.

 

Kurt had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

 

“I believe,” he began, willing his voice to remain steady, “that you had some things you wished to show me?”

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

It took a moment for the words to penetrate through the cloud of war planning and general confusion that surrounded Blaine's mind. Another moment to understand what Florian meant.

 

And only one more moment after that to drag him into the room, secure the door, dispose of his candle, and fall into bed with him.

 

“Do you mean it?” Blaine asked breathlessly between kisses, leaning up and stroking his fingers through Florian's hair. “You'll stay? And we can...”

 

“Everything,” his lover assured him, pulling him down for a deep kiss. “Show me all of it.”

 

Blaine's breath shuddered in his chest as he tried to get himself under control. “I want to see you naked.” His hand moved to the belt of the robe, loosening the knot there and pulling it free, allowing the wool and velvet garment to fall open. “I need...”

 

“Go on, Blaine,” Florian breathed, arching his hips upward. “Please.”

 

With difficulty, Blaine pulled himself away and slipped off of the bed, dragging Florian back up to standing. He pushed the robe off of the other man's shoulders, running his hands down those firm arms before freeing them and tossing the robe over a chair. With a gentle shove, he had Florian sitting back down on the edge of the bed.

 

It left only the breeches.

 

Blaine dropped to his knees and took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm him. Curling his fingers into the waist of the garment, he looked up. “Are you sure?”

 

Florian lifted his hips again, bracing on his hands. “Do it.”

 

One smooth pull and the pants were kicked aside, leaving Florian sitting fully nude on the bed's edge, his chin high and erect member standing rosy between them. Blaine licked his lips and swallowed. “My God.”

 

A flash of uncertainty went through Florian's eyes. “Is it...is it not...”

 

“It's amazing,” Blaine breathed, and meant it. Florian's cock was like rose tinted marble, rising sturdy and thick from a bed of downy hair a shade lighter than the chestnut locks on his head. Blaine reached out with shaking hand and took hold, stroking downward to pull back the foreskin and reveal the head, flushed an even deeper pink and already slick with the evidence of Florian's arousal.

 

“Blaine, please...do something.”

 

He smiled up at the worried blue eyes above him. “If you insist.”

 

“If I – oh, my God!”

 

Blaine had interrupted the puzzled inquiry by the simple expedient of engulfing as much of Florian's cock as he could with his mouth. It had been so long since he'd done this, he fumbled to find his rhythm. Long, slender fingers curled and tangled into his hair, pulling as the man above him moaned his enjoyment of Blaine's ministrations.

 

His hand clenched and pulled as he sucked in his cheeks, swirling his tongue around the sensitive head as often as he could manage. He teased the tip of his tongue into the slit there, gathering up and swallowing the salty moisture that kept collecting as he worked. “Blaine,” Florian groaned, laying back on the bed. “I never imagined...”

 

Blaine slipped his mouth free. “Not once? Because I pledge you, I have imagined exactly this more times than I can tell you.”

 

“Please, stop talking,” Florian gasped. 

 

“Your wish is my command.” Blaine bent his head back to his task, eliciting more delicious moans and breathy murmurings of his name. Deftly, he twisted his hand around the shaft that he held and hummed against the head, delighting in the sharp tug at his hair that this earned him. Florian was more responsive than Thad, more willing to exclaim his pleasure aloud or demonstrate it with a firm tug at a handful of Blaine's curls. Blaine loved it, loved knowing he could make this incredible man go all to pieces.

 

He literally had him in the palm of his hand.

 

But he had more in mind than this.

 

Slowly, reluctantly, he released Florian's member from his mouth, letting it bob up against the flat, pale, smooth abdomen as he crawled up onto the bed. “I liked that,” his lover whimpered, reaching down to clasp his own cock. Blaine brushed his hand away.

 

“I told you I'd show you all, did I not?”

 

Inquiring eyes gone dusky blue with desire and need locked and held his gaze as Florian nodded. “But you've still got your own sleep clothes on,” he pointed out, tugging limply at the linen. “It's not fair.”

 

“I happen to agree.” Blaine shrugged as he rolled onto his back and slid the offending clothing off, tossing his breeches towards the chair where Florian's robe lay, but not really caring when they fell short of their mark. Not when Florian's eyes were going wide and dark-pupiled at the sight of Blaine's erection in its thatch of ebony curls. His fingers crawled forward in greedy anticipation, but before they could wrap around him, Blaine shook his head and seized Florian's wrists in his hands, rolling over to straddle the man and look him straight in the eyes. 

 

“Let me,” was all he said as he rolled his hips forward, causing his cock to slide up against Florian's. “Let me show you – we have all night and I want you to come for me so many times, Florian. But I want the first time to happen while I'm inside of you.” He smiled as Florian bit his lip, straining his hips upward in a fruitless effort to gain more friction. “Will you let me do that for you?”

 

“Please...Blaine.”

 

“Shh. It's all right. I will. I promise.” Blaine released Florian's wrists and moved to lick the pads of his own thumbs, spreading his hands across the muscled chest below him and stroking his thumbs across the nipples, watching them tighten into pebbles. “Let me get something, all right?”

 

Florian could only nod and watch as Blaine leaned over to his bedside table, extracting a pottery bottle from the small wooden casket that stood upon it. “Almond oil,” he explained, popping the cork and pouring a golden puddle into his hand. “To make it easier...” He felt his voice falter slightly. “Florian, you are aware of...the mechanics...of what we are to do?”

 

But as Florian gazed at him, writhing and licking his lips impatiently in his arousal, he was clearly beyond caring. Blaine would have to restrain himself and make sure his lover was fully prepared before he could be entered. It would surely be the hardest fight of his life, but he would do this, would show him that there could be nothing but pleasure between them.

 

Blaine shifted back to arrange himself between Florian's legs, nudging with his elbows to get him to raise his knees up. With his empty hand, Blaine pushed down on the back of his right thigh, forcing him to lift and hold it so that Blaine could pull back his buttock, exposing the dusky entrance there.

 

“Relax, lover, please,” Blaine whispered, the air of his speaking blowing cool onto the puckered ring before his eyes and causing it to clench slightly. “First, the oil.”

 

With trembling hand, Blaine slicked the shadowed cleft, paying special attention to the entrance and ensuring it was thoroughly slippery before he attempted to press the first oil-slick finger in. Florian immediately tensed. “Shhh, Florian. Shhh...relax, please.” He fumbled with his clean hand for the hand that held Florian's thigh back and grasped it. “It's wonderful, marvelous, what I'm going to do – you'll love it, but you must relax. Do you trust me?”

 

“Of course I do,” Florian breathed. “I just don't know what - ”

 

“That's what I'm here to show you,” Blaine assured him, squeezing his hand more tightly. “Let me, please, let me in, let me show you, let me  _ love _ you...”

 

The words were out before he could stop them, suspended between them for an instant before disappearing into the night air. As they reverberated away, Florian sighed heavily and relaxed, allowing Blaine's finger to slip inside, knuckle deep. “That's it,” he crooned, slowly stroking in and out as Florian squirmed and panted. “That's it, let me in, let me touch you, fill you...” He twisted his finger, reveling in the man writhing before him, in the new sensations he was causing.

 

As Florian's whimpers grew in intensity, Blaine dribbled more almond oil over a second finger and slowly, carefully worked it inside. “Is it all right, Florian? Not too much?”

 

“Don't stop...please don't ever...”

 

“All night, lover, that's what we have,” he soothed, pressing kisses to the back of Florian's raised thigh as he worked and twisted his fingers to stretch the entrance. His cock needed to be able to fit without causing Florian harm – he in no way wanted this to be a painful, distressing experience for this incredible man. “Open, lover. Open for me.”

 

“I am...I want...”

 

“One more, all right?” With more care, Blaine pressed three fingers slowly forward, eliciting a whimper from Florian that didn't sound entirely pleased. “Florian? Is it all right?”

 

“Keep going. Please. It...I just have to...”

 

“Almost there.” As he patiently stretched and twisted, he felt his manhood straining to be buried where his fingers were, to be enveloped in that warmth and tightness. “Soon, lover. Soon.” 

 

His slow, careful work paid off as three fingers finally slipped in and out of Florian with as much ease as he could expect for a virgin. Just in time, for his cock wasn't going to wait much longer and neither, judging from the pearly droplets at the tip, was Florian's. He pulled free and swung up onto his knees, reaching for the bottle and drizzling more oil over his erect member.

 

Florian was gazing at him with hooded eyes gone deceptively sleepy looking from lust. “Soon?”

 

“Now,” Blaine nodded and ran his hand over his erection, being sure to coat it with more oil than might be necessary. Better to be safe than sorry. With a deep breath, he hitched Florian's leg over his shoulder and took himself in hand, pressing the head of his cock to Florian's entrance. “Ready?”

 

A deep breath lifted Florian's chest as well, his eyes fluttering completely shut for a moment before he looked at Blaine and nodded back. “Please.”

 

With infinite slowness, Blaine pushed forward, never taking his eyes from Florian's, whispering encouragement as the head of his member slid slowly past the ring. Here, he paused. “So that you can get used to the feel of it before I go on.”

 

Florian said nothing, only nodding once more and never moving his eyes.

 

Blaine pressed forward just a little more. “All right?”

 

“So full,” Florian breathed.

 

“So tight,” Blaine responded.

 

Inch by slow, tantalizing inch, he worked his way inside until he was root deep and then he stilled, leaning over his lover and gazing deeply into his eyes to be sure this was still all fine. “Florian?”

 

He was surprised when the man reached up with his free hand and grabbed him by the back of his neck, pulling him in for a scorching kiss that went straight to his groin and made him jolt his hips forward just a little. The movement made Florian spill a broken moan into his mouth, made him fist his fingers in Blaine's curls and tug him closer. “Blaine. Move, please, move, or I shall  _ make _ you move.”

 

A surprised chuckle escaped Blaine's lips. “As you wish.” Pulling out, he began to move with languor and care, thrusting in and out of the warmth and tightness of Florian's body almost lazily. He hadn't been in this position in so many years and wondered now,  _ why did I deprive myself? _

 

One look at Florian's sensual, heavy-lidded gaze reminded him,  _ because I did not know  _ _ **this** _ _ man. _

 

Life might possibly have been less complicated without him but oh, how empty it would also have been.

 

His left hand, still slippery with oil, reached forward to wrap around Florian's cock; the right reached around his lover's elevated leg for his hand, tangling their fingers together and carrying it to the slatted headboard so that their hands could wind around the polished wood and meet there while Blaine braced himself for deeper thrusts. If he hit exactly the right angle -

 

“Blaine!”

 

Ah. There it was.

 

He stroked in and out with a greater speed now, matching the movement of his hand on Florian's erection. “Florian...”

 

“Blaine?”

 

“This is... _ so _ incredible...is it...do you...?”

 

“Don't stop.” Fingernails dug into Blaine's neck as Florian raised his hips a bit higher, then those fingers were buried again in his hair and pulling in a delicious agony that forced a groan out of his own mouth. “Blaine, please, I - ”

 

The warmth of climax uncurled in the base of his spine and he sped up his movements, chasing the fire – so close – there -

 

Florian went first, streaks of white fluid erupting from the head of his cock and splaying across his smooth chest. “Blaine – Blaine – Blaine,” he chanted, clenching his fist ever tighter in Blaine's curls as he threw his head back in ecstasy.

 

But Blaine was beyond sense or hearing as he followed, hips snapping flush with Florian's body, buried to the absolute hilt as he spilled himself deep inside of his lover. His fingers spasmed on the headboard and around Florian's spent cock. “My God, Florian - !”

 

It felt as if his heart could burst out of his chest at the wonder of it. He'd never come so hard with Thad, not once. Never felt as if his very breath had been stolen, as if he'd lost all control over his limbs.

 

Golden stars glittered in his field of vision as he came back to the present, his breathing slowing while he gazed down at the man who lay beneath him, so closely matching the vision of his dreams but infinitely more beautiful.

 

Carefully, he pulled himself free and flopped to Florian's side, closing his eyes in an effort to recover. Florian was trying to catch his breath. “Blaine – was it – is it - ”

 

He chuckled. “Spit it out, lover.”

 

“Is that how it always is?”

 

Blaine blinked and glanced over to see the other man turned to face him, wonder in those marvelous eyes. “I don't know,” he confessed honestly. “I've only been with one other person, and it was  _ never  _ like that with them.”

 

“Oh.”

 

They lay in silence for long moments, Blaine trying to come to terms with the experience he'd just had. He wanted to fell that over and over, wanted to know what it would be like if Florian did that to  _ him _ , with his gorgeous cock and deft, nimble fingers. 

 

 _ I want all the time in the world to try everything that's possible _ , he found himself thinking, and smiled at the thought.

 

“What makes you smile so?” Florian asked, rolling onto his side and hitching his leg around Blaine's in an imitation of what Blaine had done just that afternoon.

 

Had it really only been a few hours between confusion and satiation?

 

“I was just thinking,” Blaine mused, a smirk twisting his lips upward, “of how I promised to show you  _ everything _ ...”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, for the love of God, do not use sweet almond oil for lubricant unless your doctor gives you the a-ok. 15th century, remember – Astroglide was not so much an option and I spent far too many hours researching the best substitute for this story.
> 
> Also, sorry if you don't like foreskin, but again, 15th century and Europe to boot – Catholics didn't circumcise thanks to a Papal Bull issued in 1442.
> 
> Thank you again for your kindness and support. You should all shower love on MotherGoddamn for talking me through this one - she is a freakin' champ, let me tell you. Love her.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the light of the morning after, the choices that have been made are examined - and we find that there may be nothing so worrisome as a man thwarted in both the pursuit of desire and the approval of his God.

In the pale, watery light of the hours just before dawn, Kurt Hummel was sitting up in bed next to his slumbering lover, and he had much on his mind. 

 

The first thing was that he had decided that he loved watching Blaine sleep. He hadn't realized how much stress and tension Blaine carried around, lurking in the back of his eyes and in the set of his shoulders – his general good nature and joviality tended to mask it. But when Blaine slept, peace fell over him and all of the tiny, almost invisible worry lines smoothed out. For a few hours, his responsibilities were lifted away to leave behind a sweetly sleepy young man instead of a sober, worried English nobleman. It made Kurt's heart ache with affection to see it. 

 

The second thing on Kurt's mind was his recent discovery that he was surprisingly aggressive, something he blushed to remember but was unable to forget, given that the evidence lay sleeping beside him. 

 

Blaine lay on his stomach, his muscular back like a painter's canvas dappled with red scratches and lightly purpling bite marks. Beneath the linen bedsheet that covered his lower body, Kurt knew there were more markings, finger bruises and the crescent shapes of fingernail gouges dug into taut buttocks. When they'd come to their senses after multiple rounds of lovemaking, Kurt had been horrified to see his handiwork – but Blaine had merely hushed his protests with a kiss, assuring Kurt that he did not mind, not in the _least_ , thank you, and would he very much mind continuing to do it in the future? Specifically, the immediate future?

 

With that sort of enthusiastic reassurance, Kurt found himself more than eager to comply.

 

They were very, very compatible.

 

That was a very, very great problem.

 

Because it led to the third thing on Kurt's mind, the thing that weighed the heaviest.

 

_Let me love you..._

 

The words sent chills down his spine. 

 

What had Blaine meant by them? It was too soon for love. Wasn't it? Kurt had only just come to terms with his desire for Blaine, and now love was possibly involved? 

 

But desire wasn't supposed to be a part of the equation, either, not for Kurt, and look how well he'd done keeping that at bay. 

 

Kurt had no idea how he truly felt about Blaine – hadn't even begun trying to untangle that intricate knot – except that he'd wanted him. That alone went beyond the confines of his mission, but he'd already reconciled himself to the ramifications of his desire in that regard. 

 

The mission truly was no more. 

 

He had understood his decision on an abstract level going into this, but in the light of dawn after surrendering himself entirely, it was complete. What they had done was irrevocable. Kurt had stood at the edge of the precipice and he had taken the leap. 

 

Gazing at Blaine's sleeping form, he could not bring himself to regret it. It felt as though his eyes were opened for the first time – all colors were fresh and new, all edges in sharper focus. Kurt slipped down to lay on his side facing the other man, reaching out to brush haphazard curls out of his lover's closed eyes just as he'd done the night of their first kiss. 

 

He wondered what love was, that Blaine could cast the words out so easily and so early. _How big a heart must you have? Will it be large enough to forgive me if the truth should ever out?_

 

At the touch of his hand, Blaine's eyes blinked open and a sweet, sleepy smile drifted across his face. “Good morning.” 

 

“Hello, there,” Kurt whispered back, stroking the back of his hand down Blaine's cheek. His heart had done an unfamiliar somersault at the sight of that smile, twisting in his chest in a way that felt as if it should hurt, but instead left him somehow grateful and happy.

 

How he hoped that whatever he managed to do did not erase that smile, did not replace it with anger and hurt. He prayed to whosoever might be listening to him – if there was anyone at all – that he find the very best way out of this, without hurting anyone undeservedly. 

 

He would never regret bargaining to save his father's life, never. Everything that had happened since simply made him more determined to fight the bastard who put him into the position of having to fight or fail in the first place. Jesse St. James would not lay a hand on Burt Hummel, nor on Blaine Anderson or anyone else Kurt cared for, he would fight with his last breath to ensure it. 

 

He startled out of his darkening thoughts when Blaine captured his hand and brought it to his lips for a kiss before holding it to his cheek again. “How are you feeling?” 

 

“Sleepy. Content. A bit sore,” Kurt winced as he stretched and his lower back registered a distant protest. “Perhaps I was overenthusiastic.”

 

“Never.” Blaine rolled atop him and thrust his fingers into Kurt's hair, dipping down for a long, heated kiss. “There's no such thing. Why, I could do it all over again, right now.”

 

Kurt laughed under his breath, for he could feel the compelling evidence of that stiffening against his thigh. “I've no doubt, but I fear that would be a very unwise idea.” He glanced towards the window, pointing his chin at the sun beginning to peer over the horizon. He squirmed as Blaine took advantage of his exposed neck to nibble at the tender skin there. “Ah...oh...Blaine. No. Dawn approaches. I must return to my room.” 

 

“No, you mustn't.” Blaine slipped back to Kurt's side and wound his arms around him, pulling him close. “You must stay here and indulge my every carnal whim and let me indulge yours.”

 

It was such a tempting idea. Too tempting. With another kiss, Kurt slid away and out of the bed. “Quite an enticement, and one I might consider had you not been the one who first brought up the need for secrecy.” He pulled his breeches and robe on, turning to Blaine as he tied the sash. “Alas, we have responsibilities.” 

 

“To hell with responsibility, Florian,” Blaine groaned into his pillow before shoving back up to a seated position. “I've just rediscovered the joys of sex after a long dry spell, I want to spend the day ensuring I never forget them again.”

 

Kurt tilted his head. That was the second time Blaine had referred to his past love life. “You said you'd had a lover before. How long ago could it have been? You're only twenty.” 

 

Blaine shrugged, his eyes inscrutable. “It was a brief affair when I was fifteen and...while not a mistake, something I don't care to think on, now. It didn't end well. You, on the other hand...” He got out of bed and padded over to Kurt, stark naked and bold as brass as a grin split his face before he pulled Kurt's hips in flush with his. “You end well, and you have a well end.” 

 

“That doesn't even make sense, Blaine,” Kurt groaned, shoving the other man away. “I'm leaving now. And I pledge to go to breakfast this morning. No backing out this time.”

 

“No, you should sleep in. Emma will keep something for you. You're tired.”

 

“And whose fault is that?” Kurt arched his eyebrow. “I took advantage of Miss Pillsbury's kindness last evening. I shall not overtax it. Besides, I want oatcakes.” He located his slippers and put them on. “I do expect to see you at the table as well.”

 

“My, you're quite assertive for someone who lay beneath me shouting out my name last night, aren't you?” Blaine's grin was nothing other than wicked as he stood with arms akimbo. “I daresay I like it.”

 

“Excellent,” Kurt replied tartly. “You should well get used to it.” He leaned over and caught Blaine up in a long kiss of farewell. “Until breakfast, then.”

 

“Indeed.” Blaine smacked Kurt on the rear as he turned away, earning a squawk of indignation. “Oh, I think I like that, also.”

 

“Do it again and I swear now that I shall break your fingers, my Lord,” Kurt shot back as he pressed his ear to the door, listening for other members of the household before he departed. “Good morn.”

 

“And to you, lover,” Blaine replied, his delighted smile making it clear that he was not taking Kurt's threat as a serious one in the slightest.

 

Kurt rolled his eyes and directed an indulgent smile back over his shoulder before he pulled the door open and made his stealthy way down the corridor. Once safely ensconced in his own room, he flopped onto the bed and let out a sigh that managed to be both fretful and happy all at once. 

 

_Oh, Kurt_ , he thought with only a twinge of anxiety tinting it,  _You are in quite a lot of trouble now, aren't you?_

 

And yet somehow, as he slipped away into a few more precious hours of sleep, he still could not bring himself to regret any of it.

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

 

Blaine was laughing at being left standing alone for the second day in a row. Although this instance was considerably more pantsless and less fraught with confusion than the previous had been. This pleased him  _immensely._

 

He threw open the shutters to the window to allow fresh, cool air to carry away the distinctive scent of debauched pleasure. He had a few hours before Thad arrived to dress him for breakfast, and he wanted the room to show no evidence of what he and Florian had been up to all night. That meant, as much as he wished to immediately return to bed, he had to tidy up first. 

 

Oh, he was going to have to change the bedclothes. Blaine's nose wrinkled. That would be tedious – but still, necessary, to continue the charade. Heaving a sigh, he pulled a set of linens from a chest in the corner, grateful that he'd kept up the habits of his youth in cleaning up after himself and Thad. He'd never truly thought it would come in handy again. 

 

He was quite happy to have been wrong about that. 

 

When all was arranged, and the previous night's bedsheets buried in the bottom of the wicker hamper beneath a pile of used towels, Blaine allowed himself to close the shutters and collapse under the heavy down coverlet with a yawn. He was _so_ tired and today was going to be _such_ a long day, but he couldn't regret a single instant of the night, not at all. 

 

It had been everything he'd dreamed of and more. He would have pleasant dreams until it came time to be properly roused. Dreams of pale limbs wrapped around his body, of musical sighs and warm, wet kisses... 

 

...still. Blaine was sure he was forgetting something important, but as sleep chased him into dreaming, the nagging urgency was left far behind. 

 

“My Lord?”

 

It could not have been more than five or ten minutes since he'd closed his eyes, Blaine was sure of it. He squirmed in annoyance and pinched his eyes more tightly shut. Whoever was speaking to him wasn't the man of which he dreamed, so he would ignore it. 

 

The voice persisted. “My Lord. You must awake.” A warm hand touched his shoulder through the coverlet and shook him gently. “Come, or you shall be late to break your fast.” 

 

“Go 'way,” he muttered, cocooning more tightly in the bedding. But the voice was having none of it.

 

“Up, or I shall fetch Baroness Linwood and a bucket of snow. You'll have no choice but to wake then.”

 

“Dirty pool. All right, all right. I'm waking.” Blaine grumpily shook off the hand and pushed himself to sitting for the second time that morning, rubbing his gritty eyes. “Good morn, Thad.”

 

“And to you, my Lord.” Satisfied that Blaine was moving, if not upright, Thad turned away to proceed to the wardrobe. “I think today the forest green doublet with the black trim and black hose.”

 

“Whatever you like,” Blaine yawned. “It's only clothing.” He forced himself to climb out of bed and ambled over to the mirror and basin in the corner, pleased to see that there was still enough water in it for a decent wash. He and Florian shared a fastidious streak, and so between bouts of lovemaking, they'd spent a few minutes lazily dampening cloths and wiping sweat and the evidence of their enjoyment away from each other's bodies, only to arouse each other in the process and end up having it to do all over again. Blaine smiled at the memory before splashing the last of the clean water over his face.

 

They were so very compatible. 

 

His eyes closed to avoid getting water in them, Blaine did not see Thad turn away from the wardrobe and face him. He did, however, hear the sharp intake of breath from his valet and former lover exactly as he realized what precisely the last thing he'd forgotten about had been. 

 

_He'd fallen asleep at some point, awoke not much later to feel arms wrapped around him, teeth biting lightly into his shoulder and Florian's hand gripping his rising cock as he ground his own against Blaine's buttocks. When a breathy moan indicated the Blaine was awake, his lover had pulled back and turned him on his stomach, using his strong hands to intersperse soothing massage with arousing bites and scratches that had led to more, more, so much more..._

 

The marks. The faint but unmistakable bite bruises, the fingermarks, the red scratches. None of which he'd minded acquiring in the least, but he absolutely minded Thad seeing them for a multitude of reasons ranging from _this is private_ to _I did not do this to hurt you_. 

 

“David worked me harder than usual in yesterday's practice bout,” he tried lamely, but he knew from looking at Thad's face in the mirror that his excuse was falling on rightfully skeptical and scornful ears.

 

“Oh, someone worked you harder than usual, that's obvious, but please don't insult your intelligence and mine by trying to pretend it was David,” Thad snapped. “I know what bite marks look like. I've left enough of them on you myself.” He strode over and prodded at one with his index finger, the sting of pain causing Blaine to gasp. “I take it that you had a little visitor last night? Perhaps that blasted singing teacher you were so adamant was not coming here for your benefit?”

 

“Thad...” Blaine's voice was a warning that went unheeded.

 

“I knew when I saw him, you know. That even if you had truly had the most noble of intentions – not that I believe you did, but I believe that _you_ believed you did – they would crumble eventually and you'd fall into bed with him.” His face was pinched with anger and jealousy, eyes narrowed as he spat out his words. “How could you not? He's so very beautiful and you are so very lonely and of course you had no other _choices_ , did you, Blaine? Couldn't just come back to me if you needed so badly to bury your cock somewhere - ”

 

“ _Enough_.” Blaine whipped around in a fury, brushing aside the hand that was moving in to press against another bruise. “Your insolence is unacceptable, Thad, and your jealousy doubly so. You, me, what we had – that is in the _past_. You were part of the committee who put it there. Why do I keep having to remind you of this?”

 

“Because I keep having to remind you of the promises that you broke!” Thad's usually perfectly coiffed hair was in a sudden disarray as he dragged his fingers through it in his agitation. “I never had to worry about anyone else because you swore there wouldn't _be_ anyone else. And you made us all swear never to speak of it again. Now you're throwing all of that away...throwing _me_ away.”

 

Blaine was still furious, but a tendril of pity wound through his heart. “We were done. Over. Too much has happened, Thad. I'm sorry I've hurt you, but you had to know that if I felt the desire to return to you, I would have done so long before now.” 

 

“Why didn't you just marry Amelia?” The words were ragged and plaintive, the despair in them almost visible. “You could have married her and this would never have happened.”

 

“She would still have brought Florian with her,” Blaine explained, bewildered. He wasn't following Thad's thought processes at all. “He would still have been here, I'd still be attracted to him.”

 

“But you'd never have acted on it,” Thad explained in a rush. “You'd never betray your wedding vows. And so if I were to not have you...no one would. And we would not be here now, angry, upset, shouting.”

 

Blaine was incredulous. “But I'd be unhappy, Thad. I would be miserable, in the end. That would not be fair to me, and since I'd also not be fulfilling my duties as husband, eventually Amelia would be unhappy as well!” He ticked the numbers off on his fingers. “That's two unhappily married people and possibly Florian would be upset, since he'd _still_ be here and we'd _still_ be attracted to each other – that's three unhappy people simply to assuage your own hurt feelings...are you _mad_?” The last words slipped out before Blaine thought, and he regretted them instantly at the flash of pain he saw go across Thad's face. “No, Thad, wait. I'm sorry - ” 

 

“No, Blaine. No more.” The chill in Thad's tone and in his eyes went down Blaine's spine and made him shiver. “It is obvious that my feelings mean nothing to you.”

 

Anger seized him. “That's not true, and how _dare_ you presume that you know my feelings?” He pointed his finger in Thad's face, his rage causing it to tremble. “How dare you presume that your feelings are somehow more important than mine and those of the people I care about?” 

 

“Implying, of course, that I am no longer one of those people. Lovely.” Thad held up his hand to forestall Blaine's attempt to explain. “So you care about him already, then. My, but that was fast, was it not? Then again, you've tumbled him into your bed within a month of his arrival, so he must have some sort of redeeming quality.” A scowl twisted his handsome face into something unrecognizable. “Tell me, Blaine, can he suck your cock the way that I could? Make you feel as though your world is coming apart when you're buried inside of him? Do you crave the taste of his mouth like a drug?”

 

Blaine had finally had enough, and got right into Thad's face as close as he could to deliver his final word. “All of these many things and more, Thad.” 

 

The truth of which was proven in the next instant as Thad brought his mouth crashing down onto Blaine's, grabbing him around the waist and pulling close, grasping hands pressing down on Blaine's bruises and making him gasp again with the pain of it. And that was all he felt – pain, anger, none of the old fire of lust and arousal that used to accompany these kisses. 

 

But Thad mistook the cry of pain for passion and redoubled his efforts, tried to thrust his tongue into Blaine's mouth. His hands tugged at the laces of Blaine's sleeping breeches when they weren't trying to pull him closer. 

 

It took only a handful of moments for Blaine to gather his senses and push his former lover away with all of his strength, sending him stumbling halfway across the room. “Get out.” 

 

“Blaine - ”

 

“Get _out_! I should dismiss you for this trespass, Thad, count yourself fortunate that I do not.”

 

“You would not - ”

 

“You have not exactly proven yourself to be an authority on what I will and will not do,” Blaine spat. “But well do I know you, and my knowledge is not clouded by misplaced desire and pointless jealousy. Get out, and say nothing to anyone.”

 

“You cannot - ”

 

“I am invoking my standing as your Lord,” he growled, standing as tall as he could manage and holding all of his convictions in eyes he knew had gone dark with fury. “You will say nothing of this to anyone. Not David, not Wes, not anyone _at. All._ If I hear the faintest breath, I will dismiss you, Thad, I don't care if we've known each other for the entirety of our lives. I hope that's understood.”

 

Thad nodded once, short and sharp, and then he was gone, leaving Blaine to sag back against the basin stand. 

 

This...he was not sure how, but this could be trouble. He was going to have to think quite hard on what he was going to do about it. 

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Blinded by a red haze of rage, Thad stalked through Dalton House, headed for the weapons practice salle. 

 

Blaine required that all able-bodied men at Dalton have at least a minimal training in weaponry, firstly so that the manor was never undefended even when he and his men at arms were away. Secondly, so that his men would have an outlet for excess energies and frustrations that wouldn't involve actively harming others. Blaine chose his staff with care in order for that scenario to be highly unlikely anyway, but he felt better to be safe than sorry. 

 

Thad welcomed this edict even as he cursed the man who handed it down. Slamming into the salle, he immediately snatched up a set of padded leather practice armor and threw it on, next locating one of the heavy wooden swords for pells work. 

 

He wanted to hit something, wanted to hit it very hard. Had he his way, his target would be that damnable singer, of course. Alas, he was skimming the ragged edge of dismissal as it was – no need to go right over it. 

 

_Still, it would be so easy,_ he thought. Certainly Renner looked muscular, but he was lanky, too, like he'd had a late growth spurt and he hadn't gotten used to himself yet. Thad was willing to bet he couldn't even wield a weapon. After all, they'd every last one of them heard about how the stupid man had sneaked up on Blaine at weapons practice and gotten himself hurt. Thad had even seen the bruise himself, that horrible day he'd seen them in the library, standing close and staring at each other like somehow they'd find the meaning of life in each other's eyes. 

 

Ridiculous. 

 

Stalking across the sparring circle to the pells, Thad attacked the post with a violence that would have surprised any of his friends. They were used to the cool, collected demeanor he usually presented to the world. And while Thad wasn't the most accomplished swordsman – his job was to defend until someone with more authority and skill could get to his side – he was determined and usually very focused, easily demonstrating the precision that such work called for. 

 

Today that focus was gone, replaced with a blind fury. If the point of pells work was to fight as if actually trying to injure an opponent, Thad was hammering that home brilliantly. He chased his thoughts as he worked, somehow managing to go almost into a trance despite the arrhythmic percussion he was pounding out on his inanimate opponent. 

 

_He never even tried to fight for us,_ he seethed,  _just gave up and told us all never to speak of it again. And then he swore never to lie with anyone else. Liar. Oathbreaker._ Chips and splinters flew through the air as he continued his relentless attack.  _Throwing me aside as if I were nothing! As if what we had were as easy to dispose of as fingernail cuttings or animal leavings._

 

_He never stopped to think how much things changed for me, too, that day by the lake..._

 

Until Blaine had kissed him, Thad hadn't really given much thought to his sexual appetites. He hadn't wanted nor needed to. His ambition from an early age had been the Church. 

 

Everyone had called him The Little Monk, he'd been such a quiet, pious child. Even as a young man, his was the coolest head amongst the quartet of boys – Blaine may have been the noble, David the fighter, Wes the intellectual, but Thad was the one who kept the peace in the group. Without him, they'd have devolved into a tribe of savages, he was quite sure. 

 

He'd always loved singing the liturgy and drawing, had thought perhaps he would go into the Church as a limner, illuminating religious texts. Since he would have had to swear celibacy at that point, he'd calmly and methodically locked away all thoughts of sex, sin, and vice and had never imagined a life outside of the monk's cell. He had no idea whether he was attracted to men or women and genuinely did not care. 

 

The Church, his devotion to the teachings of God and the peace that it brought him, the _rightness_ that he felt when he thought upon it – that was what was most important. That was what he cared about above all, even before his friends. 

 

Until he was sixteen, two years from his majority and his entrance into the monastery. Until a sunny day by the lake on Dalton House grounds when Blaine turned to him, turned and sprinted over and grabbed him. Thad hadn't known what was happening until his mouth opened greedily to admit Blaine's tongue, not until his hands were roaming down the younger boy's back to grasp his buttocks and pull him closer, not until he had tumbled Blaine down into the grass and had taken him into his mouth. 

 

And then, he'd known, he'd understood, and in the space of seconds had discarded everything he'd thought he wanted for this banquet of sensation, sweat, and sexuality. To hell with what the Church thought – and of course he knew well what they said, no one would have known it better than he. It mattered not at all. He sacrificed the spiritual for the sake of the carnal and counted the loss a small one in the face of joy on earth. 

 

But abruptly, it was all ripped away and he'd had to pretend that he agreed it was all for the best. Then he was left with no lover and no prospect of a life in Christ – because how could he go to the Church now, with all that he'd done? - and all that was left to him to do was to hold on to the oath that Blaine had sworn, because as long as Blaine held to that, held him as the only one, then all that Thad had given up still meant something. 

 

Now that was all thrown away with the arrival of a gangly singer with too-pale skin and freakish eyes. 

 

_He could have come back to me_. Thad redoubled his efforts as if trying to destroy the pells, sweat and angry tears making his eyes sting. _At any time I would have taken Blaine back._ He would have gently released his other lovers – and there had been several, not just the one that Blaine knew of – and he'd have happily gone back into Blaine's arms and made up for lost time. Pretended as if the last four years had never happened. 

 

It wasn't love. Thad knew himself well enough to know that. He cared a great deal about Blaine, and loved him as a friend, but he was not in love with Blaine. In this regard, Blaine was correct. Too much had happened. Too much had changed. 

 

He simply wanted to _matter._ More than anything he wanted to matter to the person who had turned his world so entirely upside down. Wanted his sacrifices to matter. He wondered if Blaine even remembered all that Thad had given up for their time together. 

 

_Probably not._ The thought made his stomach churn. Blaine was so damned _oblivious_ so much of the time, to a maddening degree. Thad was sure that if Blaine had remembered his dreams and ambitions that the Viscount would never have chosen this particular one of his friends to drag along on his journey of self discovery that long ago day. 

 

But what did he know? After all, Blaine had found his own oath easy enough to discard. Perhaps he had thought of Thad's talk of going into the Church as nothing more than that – talk. Nothing more substantial than a soap bubble. 

 

Arms and anger both exhausted, Thad slumped to the floor of the salle, his practice sword clunking down beside him. He'd made unwise decisions in the fires of youthful impetuousity. At one time it had all seemed worth it.

 

If only he could think of a way to make it worth it again. Make Blaine understand that the consistency and security of a lifelong friendship was more desirable and, yes, sensible than blind lust for some music instructor that no one knew, whose only apparent charms were his passing prettiness and a somewhat decent voice.

 

Thad more than fit the bill if those were the deciding criteria. 

 

If Renner were gone, then Thad – knowing now that Blaine's passions were reawakened and ready to be fueled – could move back in as if his place had never been usurped. He would  _ matter _ again, all he'd done would matter, every decision made would have been worth it. If Renner were gone.

 

 _ How, though? _

 

Thad was not Blaine. Thad was not oblivious. He could watch, and wait, and if he were good and patient, then surely an opportunity would present itself. Were that to happen, it would be God's will and he would have a spiritual imperative to act upon it.

 

He had not, after all, wholly turned his back on God.

 

And Christ did forgive all sins, did he not?

 

The first hope Thad had felt in years lifted his heart, overturning his mortal despair and showing him that indeed, there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and though the gates of Heaven may be closed to him according to the strictures and teachings of the Church, perhaps still there was a chance for this loving son to reclaim his place in an earthly Paradise.

 

He scrambled up to one knee and bowed his head in prayer.

 

 _ My Father, though I may have defied Your will, I pray now that You will hear my supplication as Your humble, penitent child... _

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love to MotherGoddamn for her beta work and for my readers, whose love and feedback I cannot express enough gratitude over. Thank you, thank you, thank you for sticking with me on this. I hope you've enjoyed it and enjoy the chapters to come.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War planning begins in earnest, much to Blaine and Kurt's dismay. And while Blaine's full concentration is on his duty, he's beginning to realize that he does not know as much about his lover as he possibly should. Kurt, meanwhile, is starting to understand what the cost of defying his orders will involve.

Blaine was not sure he liked the numbers. He'd been crunching them for days, and now that he was actually surrounded by his prospective war council, they looked even less promising than they had just that morning before everyone arrived. 

 

And if he was honest with himself, they hadn't looked all that promising then. 

 

“From what I'm seeing here, we'll only be able to contribute about eight hundred armsmen between us. In total,” he announced with reluctance to a study full of his peers. Barons Carrick and Mowbray were there, along with David and a host of other men he'd known his entire life. Men he was asking to fight and die in a battle for the English throne that it was looking increasingly uncertain they'd have the manpower to win.

 

Lord Crawford had finally leveled with him on the uncertain factors that faced them in their efforts. To Blaine's surprise, it had been his cousin's own stepfather who was the hold-out. Lord Stanley, while working with the Lancastrian faction to a degree, was still not sure which side he would take arms against when on the field of battle. 

 

“It's April,” Blaine had sputtered. “ _April._ And you're telling me now that with Henry due on English shores in four months' time that his mother hasn't managed to convince her husband that her son should be on the throne?”

 

Crawford had held his hands out as if to placate the heated young Viscount. “I understand your anger, Edward. Believe me, I do. The Countess of Richmond has endeavored long to convince her husband, but still he holds out. Yet I well know we can assemble a skilled and determined army, Edward. With or without Stanley, this battle can be won!”

 

“It is a battle of desperation!”

 

“It is a battle for the future of England, Viscount Dalton!” Crawford had moved to stare Blaine down, and the sheer fire of determination in his eyes had convinced the younger man to drop the argument and make the final agreements for his cooperation in the war. The Freville stubbornness was legendary; Crawford had not gotten to where he was today by going into anything thinking he was going to lose.

 

Now Blaine simply had to convince his friends and allies of the same thing. How to do so when even he himself still felt a small twinge that told him it might be a lost and deadly cause, he did not know. But he had agreed. And now here they all were, gathered under his roof, looking dubious.

 

“Blaine...” Nicholas Gainsford, Baron Mowbray, was the first to speak after Blaine finished. “This is a lot to ask. We have more or less been at peace for almost fourteen years. I'd like to see Richard deposed as much as anyone, but I don't like the odds.”

 

“Nor do I,” Blaine admitted reluctantly. “No matter what we do, they'll outnumber us. Crawford thinks that all told, including what we contribute, Henry will only field about 5,000 men.”

 

Baron Carrick looked up with a frown, a look that Blaine wasn't used to seeing on Jeffrey Pauling's usually cheerful face. “That's not exactly inspiring confidence, Blaine. Richard can bring twice that.”

 

“Are you asking us to go into battle when even you are unconvinced that's a good idea?” Trent Davies, Viscount Larchmont, as was usual, had stood up and was nearly snorting with indignation. “Preposterous.”

 

 _Your attitude is why I was chosen to lead this charge and not you, Trent._ Blaine managed to suppress an eyeroll, but only just. “I understand your apprehension, gentlemen. And yes, I admit I do share it to a degree. The numbers don't look good. There's no denying that, I can't hide it.” He spread out his hands, trying to convey how earnest he was. “But we do have a number of advantages. David?”

 

The Marshal of Dalton House moved to join Blaine next to his desk. “The York faction is aware of Henry's intentions, but only in a vague sense. They know he's planning something, but they don't know what. They don't know to whom he's been reaching out, and they don't yet know when this is going to occur. So we do have something of an element of surprise.”

 

“That won't hold long,” Trent muttered, shooting a glare at Blaine.

 

“No, it won't,” David fired back. “It only has to hold long enough. Our other advantages include having some of the most skilled fighters and the best organization in the country. They've spent the last several years trying to keep Richard on the throne at all, especially in the face of the allegations that he _murdered his nephews_. And Richard is...not Edward. This would be his first major skirmish as ruler. We will not be facing the same man that our fathers faced at Barnet and Tewkesbury.”

 

Nick raised an eyebrow. “So? What does that mean to us?”

 

“It means that in many ways, we're more ready than they are for this, and that if we push our men hard enough over the last few months, we can refine that readiness to fight into a readiness to claim victory,” David announced with all the conviction that Blaine couldn't muster laid bare in his voice and eyes. “The greater nobles came to you because they knew you and your troops could be the pivotal additions to this battle.”

 

“Think on it.” Blaine finally interjected, his confidence growing by the moment thanks to David's knowledge and self-assurance. “They've had a country to run and it's not been easy. We've had nothing to do but remember all that we lost and work towards the day when we right the wrongs done. Even if we did not know that's what we were doing, we've done it. All we needed was a leader and a plan – which we've now got.”

 

He could see his words having an impact on his friends. They were nodding with less reluctance as he continued on. “It is our duty to do what is best for England. It is not only about us – think of the people, the commoners who talk in the streets, who do not trust their King. To not trust the man who rules you! We've had lives of ease compared to them. They had no choice in who came to the throne – at least our fathers got to try and fight for it.” Blaine glanced around, making eye contact with each one of the men in his study once more. “Let's do that again, for them, and this time, let us win.”

 

Nicholas and Jeffrey exchanged glances. “More time, Blaine.” Nick shook his head. “We must consider. We are not refusing outright, no worry – but we must think. Would that be all right?”

 

Blaine needed these two on his side more than anyone. If they agreed, the likelihood of unanimous agreement amongst this cabal of nobles was higher. “Of course. I didn't expect agreement immediately.” His smile broke the tension and called answering smiles from the others. “There's a sennight left in your stay here, and either I or David can address any concerns you may have at any time.” 

 

A timid knock at the door made them all swing around in concern, only to have the entire room relax when Emma Pillsbury was revealed to be behind it, wrapped in a voluminous blinding white apron. “My Lords, I beg your pardon. I've come only to notify you that dinner will be ready shortly, in the event that any of you wished to prepare yourselves appropriately.” With a small smile and a nod, she vanished as quickly as she'd arrived, and all of the noblemen turned to look at Blaine in confusion.

 

“You...yes. You are all going to want to go wash up. Trust me. Emma will know if you didn't.” Blaine grinned awkwardly at his friends, some of whom chuckled at memories of their own experiences with Emma and her cleanliness standards. “Let's adjourn, and we'll meet here afterwards for wine and questions?”

 

Everyone agreed and filtered out of the room in a mass of concerned whispers and the occasional bark of laughter. This left David and Blaine leaning against the desk, Blaine pinching at the bridge of his nose with his fingers.

 

“Gods breath, David, I've no idea what I'm doing in this position,” he gritted out, trying to massage away his sudden headache. “Why Crawford put me here - ”

 

“Because you're the best man for the job and that's it,” David remarked calmly, not a twinkle of mirth in his brown eyes. “I'm not going to coddle you or stroke your ego, Blaine. You know full well you're the only one who can get the temperaments and personalities of these men to mesh enough to produce a battle-ready regiment. And in this meeting, you made a very good start.”

 

“I shall kill Larchmont if he lets loose with one more scoffing retort,” was Blaine's reply as he opened his eyes. “Honestly, has he always been this ridiculous?”

 

“Are you saying you'd never once noticed?” David raised an eyebrow and didn't bother to hold back his amused smirk. Neither of them were particularly enamored of Trent, and less so now after only a few hours in his presence. It reminded Blaine why he had not maintained much of a social connection with the man.

 

Still. Larchmont was the source of the best warhorses the Lancastrians could access. He was the next most valuable Viscount to Blaine; it behooved them all to try and maintain civil relations with him if they wanted their men well-mounted for the battle. “No, I'd noticed. It was just easier to deal with when I wasn't in charge of recruiting him for war,” Blaine sighed. “He means well. All that pomposity is really only covering up that he's as nervous as I am.”

 

“If you say so.” David was skeptical, but let it go. “On another topic...”

 

Blaine looked over at his friend. “Yes?”

 

David looked both uncomfortable and slightly annoyed. “It's been a month since you asked me to look into Master Renner.”

 

“Oh.” Blaine had almost forgotten. “How is that coming?”

 

“It's not.” Ah. Hence the irritation. David hated not accomplishing tasks set to him. “I've had men up and down the Welsh border looking for any knowledge of a 'Florian Renner,' and no one can find anything. Not so much as a tavern whisper, which is odd. Musicians have that network, they always know one another.” 

 

Blaine felt his brows furrow together. “That  _is_ odd.”

 

“He's a very distinctive looking fellow, with an equally distinctive voice. It's not right that no one knows who he is, Blaine.”

 

“I am...inclined to agree,” Blaine admitted after a moment of hesitation. He didn't like the sudden feeling of wariness that touched chill fingers to his spine, the whisper that he shouldn't pursue it, he wouldn't like it what he found.

 

He shook it off. “He's young and not really the tavern sort, I think,” he replied, shrugging. “I trust you to work it out, David. God knows we English don't keep the best records, who's to say the Welsh are any better?” Forcing a broad smile, Blaine clapped his hand down on David's shoulder. “Keep plugging away, my friend. I confess I'm not too awfully concerned – he's working out well and Amelia likes him – but it's part of my routine to check these things and I know how you are about seeing tasks through to the end.”

 

“Your word is my command, sir.” A tight smile flashed across David's face. “Right, then. I'll go clean up for dinner. Will I see you there?”

 

“Absolutely. I'm sure Nick and Jeff at least will have questions for us both.” As David left, Blaine felt a pang at knowing that the arrival of his friends meant that Florian would be displaced to one of the lower tables for meals while the visitors were at Dalton House. For the next seven days he wouldn't be able to really look at or talk the other man – absolutely could not imagine he'd ever have the opportunity to touch him. And they'd had so few opportunities in the last fortnight already to do so, with Blaine in the final stages of planning this meeting. 

 

He thought he might explode from longing and frustration.

 

Then, too, there was Thad to worry about. Thad, who spoke to him no more than was necessary to get him dressed each day. Blaine had regretted his harsh words almost as soon as he'd said them, and had no idea how to repent for them. But his former lover seemed intent on not allowing him to even try to apologize, and Blaine worried that their friendship was permanently damaged.

 

Blaine knew it wasn't entirely his fault – he had tried to never give Thad cause to believe that they'd ever resume their affair, and he genuinely had felt he'd never be with anyone ever again. Florian had been the spark that ignited an alcohol soaked fire. 

 

He had never seen it coming. But Thad was unlikely to ever believe that, even if he would ever allow Blaine the opportunity to explain. He sighed, closing his eyes again and rubbing at his temples.

 

“My Lord?”

 

His eyes snapped open at the sound of the soft, lyrical voice he hadn't expected to be able to hear for several days. There in the doorway stood Florian, hesitant and uncertain. He wore the same doublet of cobalt blue that he'd worn on the day they'd met, the one that turned his eyes into the color of the sky and made Blaine want to drown in them.

 

It was difficult to remain formal, but circumstances absolutely required it. “Master Renner. May I be of assistance?”  _In removing your clothing,_ he very carefully did not say.

 

Florian stepped into the room and gently closed the door not quite completely behind him, moving to stand before Blaine. “Yes, my Lord. I've come to inquire after a favor, if I may be so bold.”

 

 _You may be as bold as you like. Especially if it means you're going to be removing **my** clothing. _ And oh, damnation, where exactly were these shocking, ungentlemanly thoughts coming from? Blaine swallowed back his desire to leer and responded with a simple, “You may. What is it?”

 

His lover looked awkward, almost as if he could read Blaine's horrifyingly filthy mind and found it alarming. Blaine would not at all have blamed him in the slightest were that the case. But no - “May I ask...would it be possible...”

 

“Anything for you, just say it.” Blaine couldn't stop the indulgent smile from sprawling across his face. It hid his slight panic at realizing he'd meant it, he was coming to a point where there was very little he _wouldn't_ do for this man. That was something he'd have to examine later.

 

Florian's cheeks turned delicately pink. “I merely wondered if I might borrow a carriage to go into Oxford on the morrow. Or a just a mount, really, I don't require the use of a conveyance since Amelia isn't going with me. I'd like to go visit the music store.” 

 

“Spending all of that time around Mistress Puckerman, I might begin to worry that she'll talk you into leaving me to go and to work for her,” Blaine teased. “No, of course you may. Tell the stablemen that you'll be borrowing, oh, let's see – you can use Granite. He's a nice, steady one.”

 

“Thank you.” Florian nodded. “Is there anything you'd like me to pick up while I'm there?”

 

He considered the unexpected question and realized that there was. “Actually, yes. Let me send you with a note for Master Puckerman. If it's not taking advantage?” 

 

“My Lord, I suspect we have passed well beyond the point of advantage taking,” Florian replied dryly, in a low whisper before returning to his normal tone. “A bit of music isn't going to take up a lot of room in my carrier bag.”

 

“It's still polite to ask.” Blaine reached over and gave a quick surreptitious squeeze to the other man's hand before crossing to sit behind his desk. “Here, give me a moment and I'll scribble out a note for you.”

 

“As you wish.” Florian took a seat, crossing his impossibly long legs. Blaine tried very hard to not wish that those legs were wrapped around his waist as he groped for a sheet of palimpsest and his quill. 

 

He'd realized recently that he'd never sung around Florian. He'd listened to the other man sing many times – once at his audition of course, or when he'd pass the music library while Florian was coaching Amelia through a difficult piece, and occasionally just around the manor, Blaine would hear wordless vocalizing and he'd peek into whatever room he was passing to see Florian with his handsome head bent over a songbook, practicing a new song for himself.

 

But Blaine was often too consumed with battle plans and keeping his household running to give much thought to music. He couldn't remember the last time he'd caught himself even just idly humming a pretty tune.

 

And he hadn't ever sung for his lover. 

 

So he was requesting that Noah send home with Florian a copy of a love song he'd always known but never owned – it was one of the few pieces that Amelia had that he did not. He was not about to ask Amelia if he could borrow hers, absolutely not. She would only get ideas. She'd be completely correct, of course, but there was no need to encourage her. As much as Blaine adored his friend, she had done  _ quite _ enough to embarrass him about Florian just on her first day at Dalton; he was not eager to repeat the experience.

 

He scratched down the name of the piece – being careful to request a copy with a lute arrangement so he could re-learn that, and instructed Puckerman to charge all of the music Florian picked up to the Dalton House account – before folding the palimpsest over several times before sealing it with a blot of dark blue wax. “There. That's done. Will you be going after the morning repast?”

 

“Yes. I'd like to get back before Amelia's afternoon lesson. We're studying _chansons_ now, and the book I've ordered is one that none of us own. I've even checked your library.” Florian's smile was shy. “You have an impressive collection.”

 

“Thank you. It's due in part to my mother.” The answer was out before he thought about it. “Aunt Alice tells me that she was very musical. My father was not, but he loved mother and so he indulged her.” Blaine swallowed back the lump in his throat, blinked back surprising tears. He did not often discuss his mother.

 

“The Baroness has to tell you? You don't remember your mother?” The question was soft, cautious, as if Florian was being very careful.

 

“I never knew her. She died when I was born.” Blaine kept his eyes down as he fidgeted with the folded letter. 

 

“My mother is gone as well. But I was lucky enough to know her. I was a boy when she died of the fever.” When Blaine looked up, it was to see Florian looking much younger than his twenty years as he wrapped his arms around himself. “I still miss her.”

 

“Do you look like her?” The inquiry slipped before Blaine could catch it. He flushed red as he wondered what had prompted him to ask. 

 

Florian cast him an odd glance. “I'm told I do. Certainly more than I resemble my father.”

 

The next line blurted out before Blaine could stop it, causing his cheeks to burn impossibly more crimson. “She must have been beautiful, then.”

 

“Oh. Well. I...” It was Florian's turn to blush, his much fairer skin going pink again as it had when he entered the room. “I suppose. Thank you?”

 

“You're welcome,” Blaine replied lamely, unable to come up with anything else. Sometimes it felt like they were back in the early stages of their courtship, all tangled tongues and unstoppable blushes. So maddening. He got to his feet and moved to stand by Florian. “Look, here, the letter, I appreciate you taking this in for me.”

 

“It is my pleasure.” The singer stood and tucked the missive into his beltpouch, turning as if to go. For a single moment, he turned back, biting his lip. “I miss you, Blaine,” he dared to whisper.

 

Blaine's heart twisted slowly in his chest. “I miss you as well. Soon, though. I'll make up for lost time. More than make up for it, I swear it to you.”

 

“I shall look forward to it.” Florian allowed a tiny smirk to turn up his mouth. “And also to being able to demonstrate in return just exactly how _much_ I missed you.” His voice dropped low even as his face remained as innocent as an angel. “With my mouth, perhaps.”

 

With that, he swept away from the room, leaving Blaine in a misery of arousal and impatience.  _ Damn this war _ , he seethed.  _ It severely cuts into time I could be spending in bed with that man. _

 

Blaine was fairly certain that if his frustration were to be allowed to brew for longer than the next seven days, he'd sweep into London and depose Richard III himself.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

_ Twenty days. _

 

Kurt ignored the fleeting thought while moving swiftly to his bedchamber in order to clean up for the evening meal. Not that he had much to clean, but he knew Emma would all but check behind his ears when he entered the dining hall, and he was intent on remaining on her good side. So, a wash up it was.

 

_ Twenty days, _ his frustrated mind – and groin – piped up again, making him slap the wall he was passing, the irritated thump echoing off of the other walls in the corridor. It had been that long since he and Blaine had done more than exchange stolen kisses in passing moments. Time kept them restricted to longing glances and surreptitious hand claspings, and even those were limited by the need to keep their relationship secret and safe.

 

Lovemaking had gone by the wayside almost as soon as they'd been able to initiate it, a fact that made Kurt grind his teeth. They'd had one more night together before war planning took Blaine away from him, a night in which Kurt had discovered exactly what movements of his tongue against the warm thickness of Blaine's cock made his lover fall apart and emit the most glorious sounds he'd ever had the very good fortune to hear.

 

He wanted more of that, more of  _ all _ they'd done together. While the visiting nobles had been nothing but courteous to Kurt since they'd arrived that morning, he already had moments where he hated every last one of them for what they represented: the complete and total monopolization of his time with Blaine. For that matter, he even disliked the King quite intensely – after all, this was war planning, and no war went on in England without the King being involved. Therefore, Kurt had decided, this was  _ all King Richard's fault _ .

 

Stomping into his room, Kurt managed to not slam the door behind him in irritation, though it was a close thing. He went right over to the basin in the corner and took up a cloth for his washing up. The crackle of parchment caught his attention, making him look at what lay next to the neat pile of face cloths.

 

St. James' latest letter. He'd cast it onto the table by the basin when he felt the intense need to wash his hands after handling it. Not that it was much different from his previous letters – the threats to his father, so often stated, were almost but not quite losing their edge of terror. He would never take the risk that Jesse might not mean what he threatened, but the words weren't the same punch to the gut that they had been when this horrifying stretch of time in his life had begun.

 

What  _ did _ send a shiver through him were the last words of the vile thing.

 

_ Don't make me come to you, Renner. I'll be most put out if I have to take time from my responsibilities to come...”educate” you...and you'll find it much more difficult to entice our young Viscount if you're not quite as pretty as you were before I paid my visit. _

 

It had escalated into direct threats upon his person now. That in itself did not really bother him. He could defend himself well enough – though he did make a mental note to ask Blaine for some sort of weapons education, even if it was only the most rudimentary of lessons. 

 

He simply did not want Jesse St. James anywhere near Blaine. At all. Kurt could not keep his father away from Jesse, not while Burt refused to leave Raglan Castle. Kurt brought it up obliquely in every letter home and Burt still would not entertain the notion for a moment, citing again his luck in working for such a man as the Earl of Huntingdon. There was nothing to do about his father, though it made Kurt's eyes sting with tears to acknowledge that.

 

Blaine, however, Kurt could actively defend. And his first line of defense would have to be his written word. He would have to say whatever was needed to keep Jesse from coming to Oxford and Dalton. He needed more time to find a way out of all of this and keep everyone safe.

 

Drying off his face and hands, Kurt sat at his desk and began composing his return letter, making it brief yet clear.

 

_ I think it will interest you to know _ , he wrote, his stomach tangling into knots with every carefully scrawled letter,  _ that the Viscount and I have progressed to more physical contact.  _

 

Confessing that – even if the confession was in actuality over a month old – made Kurt want to throw up.  It felt as though he were handing something precious over to someone he didn't trust not to break it.  Swallowing hard, he wrote on.  _ It is not at the stage that you wish it to be. The Viscount is curiously reluctant to proceed. I can only imagine that he, like myself, is new to what we do and what that entails. _

 

And wasn't  _ that _ a baldfaced lie. Kurt almost snickered as he touched his quill back to the parchment. Blaine may have had only one lover before now, but he'd evidently been an apt and eager pupil. Kurt had not one single regret about leaving his virginity in the dust, not with Blaine leading him on the journey.

 

It was difficult to believe that only eight months ago he was an awkward, inexperienced stableman who had only just discovered that it was possible to be attracted to men.

 

Kurt allowed himself only a brief moment to revel in the memory of the last night he and Blaine had spent together – sweat and tangled limbs and oh, the feeling of Blaine inside of him that frustrated him with knowing that it was as close as it was humanly possible to get to each other, his blinding desire to be able to crawl under his lover's skin and touch his heart and soul, sinking his teeth into Blaine's slick shoulder to muffle his shout as he hit his peak, Blaine shuddering as this brought him over, collapsing down to cover Kurt with his warm body, to nuzzle his lips where neck met shoulder and breathe his satisfaction into Kurt's skin.

 

Thinking of it, picturing it in vivid detail, this strengthened Kurt's resolve. Jesse St. James could not come anywhere close to discovering that, to touching it, to  _ tainting _ it with his odious presence. Setting his mouth in a tight line, he bent his head over the parchment once more to add closing lines.

 

_ Rest assured that I shall redouble my efforts. I believe it to be only a matter of time. There is no need for you to trouble yourself with the long journey. I will keep you informed. _

 

_ \--F. Renner _

 

Kurt frowned at his signature. He'd still not gotten accustomed to scribing out the name that wasn't his. It was an effort every time to keep himself from scratching out  _ Kurt Hummel _ . 

 

Worse than that was having to hear Blaine whisper the wrong name between fevered kisses and in the moments of their deepest intimacy. It cut into Kurt's heart with each intonation.  _ That's not me, it's not me, it never has been! _

 

With a savage intensity that he reserved for these moments, Kurt folded the letter shut and sealed it, the wax like a blob of blood as he brought the ring he used as his seal violently down into it, spattering droplets all over the parchment and the desktop. The blurred imprint of a horseshoe firmed in the cooling wax, both reminder and mockery to Kurt's troubled mind.

 

He could not wait to rid himself of the burden of the thing. Closing his eyes, Kurt imagined how the next morning would go. He would enjoy his ride in the April breezes, smelling the fresh scents of spring and delighting in the bursts of color from the trees and flowers. He would revel in the feel of sitting atop a horse for the first time in months, in the gentle pull of the reins and the supple creak of leather. When he arrived at the Puckermans' shop, he would divest himself of the letter, would claim his music and would spend a delightful time conversing with the couple. Noah would be as suspicious and taciturn as he ever was, Rachel's cheerful garrulousness dominating their time together and making Kurt laugh affectionately at her flights of fancy.

 

Then he would return to the manor, free once more of the threat of his obligation...until the next letter came, but he would not worry about that prematurely. Somewhat calmer now, Kurt bustled around the room with last minute preparations before heading to the dining hall, combing his hair neatly back and tucking the letter destined for Raglan into his satchel.

 

He was getting desperate, Kurt realized as he carefully hid the letter from Jesse before departing for dinner. This could not go on much longer. Unease crawled down his back as he acknowledged for the first time that despite his best efforts, blood would almost certainly have to be shed before he could manage to end this. 

 

_ With luck, _ Kurt thought viciously as he made his way downstairs,  _ it will be St. James' blood. _

 

He tried not to think about the fact that with each day this went on, he lost more and more innocence. Tried not to wonder if, when all was said and done, there'd be anything left of the real Kurt Hummel. 

 

If he'd be able to look into a mirror and still recognize the man who gazed back at him.

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Blaine watched the next morning as Florian rode off on his errand, admiring the brief glimpse of well muscled thigh and calf at work directing Granite in his movements. _What I would not give for just a moment or two alone with him._

 

“My Lord?”

 

He turned away from the window in his study to face David. “Er. Apologies. Yes?” 

 

“The others are ready whenever you are.” The Marshal gestured around the room where the various Barons and Viscounts were scattered around speaking low to each other while they waited. Blaine stifled a sigh, squaring his shoulders to meet his duty head on.

 

Six more days. He just had to keep his head on straight for the next several days. After all, the fate of the nation rested on his shoulders, _not_ his cock. Though the idea of the latter made for some entertaining considerations. 

 

“My Lord!”

 

At David's annoyed bark, he pushed away his salacious thoughts and focused. “Gentlemen. Thank you for returning. Nicholas tells me that you all have more questions for me...” 

 

Four hours later, Blaine thought that if he had to live through six more days of this that it would kill him. His brain whirled with questions and options and Trent's stentorious posturing. By the time he'd dismissed them all for lunch he wasn't sure if he would rather murder them or commit suicide by throwing himself off of the prison tower. 

 

He elected instead to simply go to his room in hopes of catching a brief nap before he had to go back and enter the fray all over again. He trudged up the stairs slowly, head down, heavy with dread and responsibility. 

 

Six more days of trying to convince his friends to volunteer to die. 

 

So wrapped up in his dark thoughts was he that he very literally ran into Florian at the top of the stairs. Blaine blinked at the feel of velvet and muscle under his hands as he reached out in reflex to grip the other main's waist, preventing him from falling over. In a matter of seconds the clouds had been burned away from his brain by lust and one throbbing thought: _I only need to get him alone for a moment._

 

Florian began to speak while Blaine's mind was racing. “I came back a bit earlier than I expected – Rachel isn't feeling well. I have your music in - ” 

 

“Shh.” Blaine placed a finger over Florian's mouth to silence him, while looking around to assess their options. Grasping at his wrist, Blaine dragged him towards a door at the end of the corridor. "Here. We won't have long." He had the door flung open in an instant to reveal a small linen closet, full of shelves lined with towels, bedsheets, and coverlets. "In here!"

But Florian was balking. "What are you - Blaine. It's a _linen closet_."

"And we have a handful of moments in it at most, come, _please_ Florian." He reached back and grabbed both of his lover's hands, using all of the strength in his trained fighter's body to haul him into the tiny room before yanking the door shut behind them and attaching his lips to Florian's throat. "No time to get up to anything really marvelous," he mumbled around the mouthful of soft skin. "But I needed to _taste_ you."

All reluctance was gone from Florian as soon as the door closed and they were fully alone for the first time in far, far too long. "Oh, God, Blaine, when do they leave? There's no way this is enough." Florian was grinding his hips up against Blaine, fingers knotted firmly into his dark curls and holding him tight to his throat. "I need you."

"Another sennight and I'm yours, lover, for a time anyway." Blaine's cock was fair bursting out of his hose, and he felt Florian's was much the same. He wanted to weep for their inability to do anything about either of them. "Spring's here...have to take you down to the -"

Light flooded the tiny closet, blinding the two of them and causing them to shout. In return, they both heard a tiny gasp - too tiny for them to place who it was. Both men squinted towards the open door, trying to make out the indistinct figure there.

Sight resolved for Blaine first. He groaned in mingled relief and exasperation at what he could now see was a woman in the doorway, backlit by sunlight streaming through the open windows of the corridor It turned her golden curls into a nimbus of light and made her easily identifiable once he could see.

"I knew," Amelia sighed, "that it was too much to ask to not catch you in here again, Blaine. At least this time everyone's got all of their clothes on."

"Oh, God, it's Amelia." Florian buried his face in Blaine's hair. "Blaine, you are _terrible_ at this secrecy thing."

"You followed me in here," Blaine protested.

"You _dragged_ me in here. Bodily. Remind me next time that you have no idea what you're doing," countered his bashful paramour.

"If everyone is quite finished," Amelia interjected, "Then I would very much appreciate it if Florian could hand me that stack of pillow covers on the shelf that's above his head?"

 

Florian did so without a word, reaching up and passing the pile of linens over to his student while keeping his embarrassed glare firmly trained on Blaine, who threw up his hands. “I'm sorry!” 

 

“She's caught you in here before,” Florian sniped, pointing at Amelia. “You have been caught in here before! And you still thought it was a good idea to come _back_ here! Your head, Blaine – I would greatly like to know where it is, sometimes.”

 

“In my trousers, apparently,” grumbled the Viscount. “Well, I can see this is a lost cause.”

 

“Oh, piffle, Blaine.” Amelia leaned up on her toes to give him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Meet me in the music library tonight, you two. I'll let you cuddle all you want and not make one face at you.”

 

Florian tilted his head and gave her a dubious look. “Why are you not disembowling us for not telling you sooner?” 

 

“Because I know you'll both try to buy my silence and I like presents,” was the prompt and overly honest reply. “I shall see you this evening!” Gathering her pile of fabric closer to her chest, Amelia beamed a sunny smile at them and bustled off in a whirl of brocaded skirts. 

 

The two men leaned against opposite shelves and regarded each other with glumness. “Should we be worried at how accurate her assessment of us is?” wondered Florian aloud. 

 

“You may. It's been my entire life, I'm used to it,” was Blaine's disgruntled reply. “I suppose we'd better get out of here before someone else comes along.”

 

“Yes,” agreed Florian. “I think if Emma caught us, I'd instantly demolish all of the good will I've managed to build up with her.”

 

Blaine pushed off of his shelf and moved to wrap his arms around his lover. “And that's a commodity precious as gold, not to be squandered or wasted.” He sighed and tipped his mouth up to press a slow, lazy kiss against Florian's lips. “A bit like time with you. Alas. I do miss you.” 

 

“And I you.” They stood pressed close for a moment, long enough to feel each other's heartbeats before parting. “We'd better go.” Slowly, Florian disengaged, and they carefully made their way out of the closet without encountering anyone. “You said you wanted to take me somewhere. Where?”

 

Blaine frowned in thought. “I did? Where would I – oh! Yes. The lake.” He flashed a quick, boyish smile at Florian's curious face. “I've a lake. I'd like to ride down to it one day with you. Have a picnic, perhaps?”

 

A look of delight crossed Florian's face. “I should like that very much. Riding Granite today was glorious, I'll take any opportunity to ride a horse again.”

 

“Oh, and the time spent with me, that means nothing to you, then?” Blaine grinned impishly at Florian's blush. “No, no, it's quite all right, I've only just risked my reputation for a romp in the linen cupboard with you, nothing to worry about.”

 

For the second or third time since they'd entered their relationship, Blaine watched something dark flicker behind Florian's eyes before his lover put on a bright smile and nudged him in the arm, chattering about how of  _course_ he hadn't meant it that way, he also looked forward to spending time with Blaine, and so forth. Blaine only listened with half his attention, the other half idly contemplating the puzzle of the things Florian didn't tell him, the dark thoughts lurking at the back of his mind that sometimes shadowed their conversations. 

 

They'd spent most of their time together reveling in their physical attraction and mutual carnality. They didn't really talk about themselves - Blaine hadn't even known until yesterday that he and Florian both knew the pain of lost parents. Was that not something that should have come up before? Why had he never bothered to ask?

 

All he truly knew was that Florian sang, that he taught music, that he was skilled with horses, had lived in Wales, was a little ticklish...and that sometimes he thought of things that disturbed him, though Blaine couldn't yet work out what triggered the brief spells of darkness.

 

Stubbornly, his brain – so steeped in strategy and planning these last weeks and so on high alert - tried to connect all of this with the potential mystery of David's inability to research Florian's past.  _There's so much you don't know, is the time before a battle really the time to have someone you don't truly know that close to you?_

 

Just as stubbornly, Blaine pushed it all to the back of his consciousness and focused only on the play of sunlight in Florian's hair as they made their way down the corridor before separating.  _The time before a battle is when I need to hold close those things which bring me the most joy, so that there are bright moments in the darkest hours._

 

By the time he arrived at his room and had closed his eyes to allow himself a few precious moments of rest, he had almost convinced himself that he was right. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My forever love to MotherGoddamn, who betas this while working on her own epic fics and having a real life. I don't know how she does it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the nighttime, revelations are made, realizations come to, and words said that cannot be taken back.

“It's certainly lovely to see you again, Florian. It's been ever so long.” Amelia's tone was teasing as she combed her fingers through Kurt's hair. They were in the window seat of the music library as usual, Kurt with his head in Amelia's lap and his legs stretched up along the walls of the nook. 

 

He batted her hand away, not even bothering to open his eyes as he did so. “You see me during the day. You're only put out because I put our night chats on hold for a bit. Blaine and I had to make up for lost time after his friends departed.” 

 

“But five _entire_ days?”

 

“We were making up for lost time yet to come, as well,” Kurt mumbled, prying open one eye to see her giggling down at him. “He's going to be busy again before we know it, and I'm in fighting lessons when I'm not teaching you...we just wanted to spend all the time we could together, which you know well isn't very much to start with, Amelia.”

 

“I do.” She sighed and pouted a bit. “But I like spending time with you, also, outside of lessons.”

 

He smiled before shutting his eye again. “I do, too, Amelia. We're going into Oxford soon, though, that will be a nice day excursion. And we can always go horseback riding, it's warm enough. We'll make time. Or rather, I will. Somehow.” 

 

“I'm sure this job didn't seem quite so time consuming when you decided to try for it,” Amelia teased. “You probably thought you'd have plenty of free time.”

 

“I truly did,” Kurt admitted with rueful honesty. “How many hours a day can one sing, really? I actually thought I'd have a problem filling the remaining hours.”

 

“Then I am glad that you and Blaine are so compatible. I'd hate for you to sit with nothing to do, Papa would have questioned the need for you and anyway, idle hands are the devil's playground.”

 

He shifted and hummed a snatch of one of the  _ chansons _ they'd been learning – with some trouble, given his lack of ability to speak French. Still, they muddled through, he reading the music and she reading the words. “I suppose I really should thank you for that, though you were embarrassingly heavyhanded about it.”

 

Amelia scoffed. “Neither of you would have gotten around to anything if I hadn't been. I regret nothing.” 

 

“Amelia...” Her phrasing reminded him that he had questions, so many of them. He thought about how to ask the one that he wondered most about. “You go to Church. You know what they say about men such as Blaine and myself. Why _did_ you want us together? You know they say it's wrong.”

 

She was silent for so long that he finally opened both eyes to see her gazing out the window, putting her thoughts together. “It's taken me a bit of time to come to the conclusion,” she eventually murmured, “But I decided in the end that...it's love that matters. I would rather foster efforts to put more love in the world than to frighten and condemn anyone. I love Blaine, he's my dearest friend and...well. I suppose I've always felt guilty about my part in ending his relationship with Thad.” 

 

“What?” The revelation was a shock. He'd had no idea – though it did explain, he thought, why the valet took great pains to never be around him and often was openly snippy towards him. He'd wondered. “Thad?”

 

“They were very young, it was before Thad was Blaine's valet and assistant.” As Amelia spoke, her attention still focused on the view outside of the window, Kurt realized this must have been the relationship that Blaine had mentioned. The one affair he'd had before Kurt, the one that had ended badly. “The Baroness and I caught them, once. It was all very painful and embarrassing, none of us were terribly understanding, and when it was over, Blaine swore he never wanted to speak of it again.”

 

A chill went through Kurt as he realized just how close he'd come to forcing Blaine to relive that awful experience, and on a much more damaging scale. No matter the personal cost to himself at the end of all of this, he was glad he would end up sparing Blaine that. “Oh,” he replied lamely when he realized she was waiting for him to respond. “So I'm a sort of...penance for you?” 

 

“No, you're a blessing,” she laughed, good humor returning as swiftly as it had gone. “And a dear friend of mine as well whom I'd also like to see happy. So you see, Florian, it all works out.”

 

“Except for the time aspect,” he pointed out. “Not enough hours in the day.”

 

Amelia pressed a kiss to her fingers and then touched them playfully to his nose. “That's why we have the night.” 

 

“And I hope no one minds that I've come to intrude upon yours.” The pair of them shot identical looks of surprise at the door as Blaine poked his head into the room, a candle illuminating his journey to the window seat. “Hello, pretty,” he greeted Amelia, kissing her cheek. “I think you're where I want to be.”

 

She rolled her eyes and shoved herself further into the window nook while Kurt held up his head for Blaine to slip his legs in beneath it. When the men were arranged, Amelia tucked herself in under Blaine's arm. “There. Perfect. Hello, boys.” 

 

Laughter rumbled in Blaine's chest, shaking both Amelia and Kurt. “You are something else, Amelia. It's good that I love you.” 

 

“And I you,” she retorted. “You promised that I could have Florian tonight.”

 

“You do have him,” Blaine pointed out. “He's right here.”

 

Amelia huffed in annoyance. “I meant have him to myself and you know it. You are cheating, Blaine. Or using a loophole. Something. It's not fair, you've had him for days.” 

 

He reached over to poke her in the side. “You're going to let me do it, too, since I'm allowing you two to yet again borrow one of my carriages to go into Oxford. At this rate, you're going to own everything that Master Puckerman stocks!” 

 

Kurt decided to speak up. “Ignoring the fact that you're both squabbling over me as if I were a commodity rather than a person...we want to bring Rachel a present, Blaine. Didn't I tell you that they just found out she's going to have a baby? That's why she wasn't feeling well. They told Amelia only the other day, I'm sure I mentioned it.” 

 

“You didn't, no.” Blaine frowned. 

 

“You were likely preoccupied,” Amelia interjected sweetly. “Making up for lost time and whatnot.”

 

Both men closed their eyes and quietly flushed the same shade of crimson, leaving Amelia to look far too pleased at the results of her fun. Blaine poked her in the side again, harder this time. “Amelia, you are a pain in my backside. I don't have to let you use my carriage.” 

 

“Yes, you do,” she protested. “Don't penalize Rachel simply because I like to tease. I'm almost done embroidering the bonnet and blanket for the baby. Besides, Florian's expecting another letter from his father.”

 

Blaine looked down at his lover in surprise. “So soon? Did you not just send your last one yesterday?” 

 

“Your sense of time is warped from how much of it we've managed to spend together lately,” Kurt replied mildly as he sat up. Blaine pouted and moved to prop his arms on Kurt's knees, resting his chin atop them and making sheep's eyes at Kurt that he ignored as he continued. “I send one a week, there was the one I took into town when I picked up your music order, Blaine, and then one again five days ago before you began taking up all of my time.” He leaned his head down to give Blaine a quick kiss. “Not that I mind, of course. The point is, one should be waiting for me, and I want it.”

 

For all his blasé demeanor, however, Kurt was actually terrified and anxious to see if  _ Jesse _ had sent him a response to his last letter. The first one that he'd intended to put out the fire of him threatening to visit had not placated the Steward at all, who had shot back with,  _ You don't actually think I'm going to take you at your word that everything is fine? Not after I threatened to come up there? Honestly, Renner, if you think I was born yesterday then it is doubly imperative that I come to demonstrate otherwise. _

 

So he'd had to send another one full of reasons and excuses why things were seemingly progressing at a snail's pace. His desperation to keep Jesse away from Blaine was rising like floodwater; only terrible things could happen if St. James came anywhere near Dalton. Kurt wasn't ready for it, hadn't figured out how – if – he was going to get all of them out of this safely, didn't know if Jesse would perhaps actually  _ bring  _ his father's fingers or something equally horrific.

 

It felt like everything was spiraling wildly out of control. He'd acknowledged when he decided to fight his seeming fate that there was a steep chance of failure. It now appeared that failure was guaranteed and God alone knew what the cost besides his father's life would be. His own life? Worse than that, Blaine's?  _ God, please, no, _ Kurt begged whatever silent deity might listen. 

 

“Florian?”

 

He jumped, bumping Blaine in the chin with his knees. Both his lover and his friend were frowning worriedly at him. “I'm sorry. What have I missed?” 

 

“I was just saying goodnight, lover, and wondering if you wished to join me. Remember, we're in the salle tomorrow night for your lesson, you want sleep.” Blaine took his hand and squeezed. “Are you all right?”

 

“Just wit-wandering.” He knew the smile on his face was forced and raced for an explanation. “I'm a bit tired, I miss home, that's all.”

 

Blaine's smile was soft and affectionate. “I'm sure you must. Perhaps when things settle down, I can send you back to Wales for a few days. Only a few, though, I'll want you back.” 

 

The kindness and...yes, he was nearly certain it was love in that offer, in that statement - it nearly unhinged Kurt.  _ Don't fall in love with me, Blaine, don't, I'm nothing but disaster and pain and don't deserve you, I am going to get you hurt because I followed my heart instead of my head. I thought I knew what I was doing and now I can't work out how to repair the damage I've caused.  _

 

_ I think it's too late for me, but oh, please, save yourself... _

 

He forced his smile wider. “I'd love to do that. Maybe one day I could take you with me? Or Amelia? You'd both love Wales, I think, we could study some of the local folk songs there, you could meet my father...” 

 

As the three of them spun plans for a holiday that would never happen, Kurt felt the tension and worry drain away from the two people he could now acknowledge he loved most next to his father. But his own shoulders remained tight, his brain chaotic with fear, and later, when he lay curled up next to Blaine in bed, he slept – but uneasily, and his whimpers at the nightmares caused Blaine to hold him close and wonder what demons chased his lover in the night. 

 

He could not know that one of the demons was himself, or the self that Kurt was sure Blaine would become if he ever found out the truth behind the existence of Florian Renner. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

At Raglan Castle that same evening, Jesse St. James stared down at the letter in his hand, knowing his mouth was wide open in disbelief at the fact that he'd sent someone so entirely _stupid_ to do such an important job. 

 

_Viscount Dalton has been very busy with a number of visitors, it has been difficult to get audience with him. I continue with my best efforts and hope for a final breakthrough soon._

 

Visitors. 

 

Jesse would bet his mother's life that those visitors had to do with the war efforts he'd been trying to derail.  _ Goddamn it, Hummel! _

 

Shoving away from his desk, he barely felt the pop of Miss Lopez' mouth slipping off of his cock. He groped underneath to drag her up and shove her towards the door. “Get out,” he ordered as he haphazardly laced up his hose. When he had arranged at least a glancing nod at modesty, he looked up to see that she hadn't moved, and was opening her mouth to begin haranguing him in Spanish. He had no time for this. “Out! Get out, you pox riddled slattern, out!” 

 

Judging by the murderous look on Santana's face, he was absolutely going to have to hire a food taster for the next sennight, but he didn't care. Nor did he care that if he wanted a bed partner, he would have to settle for the equally flexible but far less tempestuous Miss Pierce, which would take some of the fire out of the proceedings.  _ Oh, hell, as if I'll have time to sleep with anyone now, _ he raged, pacing the room with his hands knotted into his hair.  _ One more thing to punish Hummel for! _

 

He'd underestimated Hummel's virginal reluctance. He'd thought for sure that the threat against his father's life would easily override any blushing maiden antics. Unless the idiot horseman had worked out that Jesse had never had any intention of harming Burt Hummel? Huntingdon had not wanted to know specifics of Jesse's plan, but he'd known of Burt's tangential, involuntary involvement from the beginning and had made his Steward swear to do no physical harm to his valued stablemaster. 

 

The threat of bodily harm at the failure of the mission, however, was very real – specifically Kurt's bodily harm. Jesse had simply felt that the idea of torturing  _ Burt _ would be a greater impetus for Kurt, who tended to be sickeningly selfless and more devoted to his father's welfare than seemed strictly normal to Jesse. So he'd lied to Kurt's face with nary a single regret. And it should have worked.

 

Jesse seethed as he paced. Maybe it had worked and that wasn't the problem at all. Whatever the case, he was most certainly going to have to go to Oxford to correct it. He needed to know with precision just how wrong it had all gone and how much damage control he would have to do. Once again, he cursed his inability to infiltrate spies into Dalton House, spies who might have been able to tell him the exact nature of the meeting. He had no way of knowing how far down the primrose path of rebellion the Lancastrians had wandered. 

 

He hadn't told Hummel  _ why _ they needed Dalton discredited – he didn't need to know - but he should have clearly and specifically put a tighter timetable on it, Jesse realized. Things had never been meant to progress this far. Jesse now did not know if he had time to work in another, more compliant saboteur or if Lancastrian plans were so close to completion that he would simply have to kill Hummel and Anderson both in order to cause the largest disruption.

 

Either way, he  _ absolutely _ had to kill Hummel. There was no getting around that. But not until he'd determined the extent of the problems that now lay before him. That would help him sort out the finer details of the death he was going to have to deal out, the location, time, and how long he was going to make it last.

 

And it would last. It would last a very long, agonizing time, he vowed. Jesse St. James was not the sort of man it was wise to cross or attempt to make a fool of. Kurt Hummel may have thought he'd known that before, but Jesse would be more than delighted to show him how very, very wrong he was. 

 

He slipped back into his desk chair, somewhat more calm and ready to plan. The first order of business would be to send a messenger off this very evening with a letter that was sure to put the fear of God into his failure of an agent. Then he had to clear his schedule for at least the next seven to ten days, secure conveyance and lodging, and organize a suitable location for the death of Kurt Hummel. 

 

_ Murder,  _ Jesse decided as he pulled over a stack of parchment and a quill,  _ involves entirely too much paperwork. _

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Late the next night, Blaine let out a sigh. “This was your idea, Florian. Any time you're ready?” 

 

“I'll be ready when this armor is,” Kurt repeated for the fifth time, hands full of a leather corselet, needle and thread. “I cannot believe you allowed people to use this, even for practice. It's riddled with rips and tears. I refuse to put it on until I am satisfied with its structural integrity.”

 

“But we are running out of time, and I wanted to take you to the lake after we do this.” Blaine's voice was petulant, making Kurt's resolve waver just a little. Time together was still so infrequent and hard-won that he felt guilty about being thought to squander any of it.

 

Then he remembered. “Do you really want me to risk another bruise so painful that you can't touch me for another fortnight or more? We're going full contact tonight, Blaine. It's bad enough you won't take yours off so I can make sure it's in good order.” 

 

“You're free to try and wrestle it off of me,” Blaine offered hopefully. Kurt arched one eyebrow and smirked.

 

“That was an excellent effort.” He stopped just shy of full condescension, sticking his tongue out playfully. “But no, I've my hands full enough as it is. Now, shh. I'm nearly done.”

 

This was only their second or third lesson together – when Kurt had finally asked Blaine for weapons instruction, pointing out that he was the only person at Dalton who didn't really spend time in the salle, Blaine had quickly obliged by putting him under David's tutelage whenever the Marshal had a spare moment. 

 

Blaine's teaching had come in after David tried and failed for nearly a fortnight to instill even the most basic points of swordwork in Kurt, who was surprised and annoyed to discover he had no aptitude for it whatsoever. 

 

It had been decided that dagger work was a better alternative, and since it would require Kurt to learn more about grappling in close quarters, Blaine volunteered for these lessons with a delight he was hard pressed to conceal. Kurt, who had been standing behind David for the discussion, had been equally hard pressed to hide a droll grin. 

 

“So what if it was really just an excuse to spend more time with you?” Blaine had asked him later while they were in bed. “Are you objecting to the thought of me with my hands all over your body?”

 

Well, when he put it that way...“Not in the slightest,” Kurt had assured him. 

 

Grappling, Kurt  _ did _ have an aptitude for, and not merely because it meant groping Blaine. He guessed his reflexes dealing with the breaking of horses probably helped, and his precision with the wooden practice daggers was likely due to his hand-eye coordination from leather repair. Or so he gathered. Whatever the case, this was something he could do.  _ And _ it allowed he and Blaine to have extra time together that involved plenty of touching. Fear had been Kurt's true motivation in seeking out the defense lessons, of course, but had he known there'd be quite so much rolling around on the floor with Blaine, he'd have asked for them sooner.

 

They were moving on to full contact grappling and blunted metal practice daggers now, which could still do damage. That was why Blaine had pulled out the leather armor for the two of them and why Kurt had immediately gasped, snatching the one designated for him out of Blaine's hands to take it right over to one of the benches. He had been gratified to find a box with the tools he needed, but shook it at Blaine first, an accusing air in his tone. “You have everything you need right here! Why has this been allowed to get into this condition?” 

 

“We didn't have anyone who knew leatherwork! I send my tack out for repair and Emma only sews tea towels and bolsters, what was I supposed to do? Why do you know how to repair it?”

 

“For the same reason I know how to saddle and ride a horse, Blaine.” Kurt suppressed an irritated sigh. “Connect two logical thoughts together once in a while, will you? This is _supposed_ to be part of the job of a stableman – remember, I wasn't always a music teacher. And you need to reevaluate your stable staff,” he added primly. Threading the needle, he had gotten right to work, ignoring Blaine's grumbling. 

 

Thirty minutes later, he had as much of the thing repaired as he thought he was going to get away with. It would have to do. He slipped the corselet on, lacing up the front and making sure all of the double-stiffened panels were protecting what they should. “All right, Blaine. Come on.” 

 

With a wicked grin, Blaine launched himself across the salle and tackled Kurt to the ground. Today's lesson would be in how to get a weapon away from someone when you didn't have one yourself. Kurt was playing the unfortunate enemy first. 

 

“Ouch!”

 

“Sorry, lover,” Blaine breathed, not sounding very sorry at all. For all that he very much enjoyed the opportunity to have his hands on Kurt, he also approached the lessons with a great deal of seriousness. His head had been in the game as soon as Kurt had given the signal, his face grim as he disabled his lover by kneeling on his arms and reaching behind himself to snatch the dagger out of the belt around Kurt's waist. No matter how Kurt bucked and twisted, he was pinned firmly when Blaine brought the knife down to lay across his throat. “You're dead.”

 

“Damn it.” Kurt pulled his arms out from under Blaine's knees, already feeling the ache where his biceps had been pinned down. “That hurt. And you could have given me a warning.”

 

“No enemy will give you a warning on the field of battle, Florian,” Blaine informed him while slipping the blade back into Kurt's belt. “If I teach you nothing else, remember that.” And with that, they were at it again, Kurt managing to hold his own with a bit more success but still ending up dead in the end.

 

So it went on for two more hours, switching places, grunts of exertion forced out with every tackle, muscles growing fatigued and breath coming shorter and shorter with every bout. Still, Blaine refused to let up until Kurt, in the position of the attacker, finally was able to pin him down and get his hands on the dagger. “Got it! You're the dead one now, Blaine Anderson,” Kurt crowed in triumph. 

 

The triumph was short lived as Blaine worked his arms free to wrap them around Kurt's waist and roll him over, taking his mouth in a raging kiss. Taken by surprise, Kurt could only grind his hips up in reflex, causing Blaine to spill a moan between his lips. They began tearing at the laces of each other's practice armor, tossing pieces helter-skelter in their efforts to get as close as they could. 

 

“Okay, you win, lesson over. Did you get the bundle ready? Is it in the kitchen?” Blaine's questions came between kisses sucked into Kurt's neck, making it hard for him to remember what the hell Blaine meant. Oh, wait. Lake. Picnic.

 

“Yes, I got it sorted while the kitchen was empty after dinner, it's all by the fire,” he gasped, bucking his hips up again when Blaine caught him right behind his earlobe. 

 

“I can't wait another second, not after all this wrestling about. I'm going to get it. You get the towels and the horses ready, meet you in the stable.” With a last hard kiss, Blaine managed to pull himself away, leaving Kurt to lie disheveled and breathless in the middle of the training circle.

 

“He's going to kill me one day,” Kurt muttered, struggling to sit up and catch his breath. When he felt he could stand, he pushed up and staggered around throwing leather armor into various bins before gathering an armful of clean towels from their usual basket and rushing to the stable. Blaine met him there as he was finishing the saddling, a linen bag slung over one shoulder. 

 

“Ready?”

 

“Just about.” Kurt pulled Melody's saddle girth tight and turned to do the same for Granite. “There. Let's go. What took you so long?”

 

“Had to get something that I didn't tell you to put in the bag.” Blaine grinned as they led the horses out into the moonlit stableyard, his expression both salacious and boyish in that way that was unique to Blaine and Blaine alone. 

 

“What could – oh. Yes.” Kurt was glad the action of swinging up into his saddle gave him the excuse of exertion to explain his blush. After two months, he still retained some small vestige of virginal modesty, though he was sure that much more time with Blaine would manage to rid him of this completely.

 

“No, not just that,” Blaine laughed. “Though...also that.”

 

Kurt blushed even harder and hoped that Blaine couldn't really tell.

 

The ride to the lake was slow, silent and charged with sexual tension. An unspoken pact kept them from speaking as they ground tethered the horses in a lush patch of grass, maintained the silence while they faced each other and disrobed separately, each movement deliberate, skin revealed in steady increments. 

 

They'd discovered they liked this sort of slow tease, heightening the anticipation until each of them was rock hard and straining not to run to the other. They had to be even more careful tonight, sore and bruised as they were from their session in the salle. Though some bruises would be pressed down and sucked on in the course of their activities this night – they'd discovered that this, too, was something they liked, the little flashes of pain caused by grips and kisses that were only just on the light side of too hard. 

 

Blaine moved first when they were both naked, pacing over to take Kurt's hand and lead him into the lake. The water was still somewhat warm from its all day exposure to the sun, causing the tension and aches to begin leaching out of their muscles almost immediately. Before delicious relaxation coaxed Kurt into floating on his back, though, Blaine had slipped in behind him, wrapping his arms around him so that they floated together lazily, his erection brushing against Kurt's buttocks underwater. 

 

Still had no words passed between them. 

 

With care, Blaine pulled him back even tighter against his chest, floating his other hand through the water and spider-walking his fingers up one hip, finally wrapping a cool hand around Kurt's straining cock. He began to stroke, still slow, still deliberate, opening his mouth to suck at Kurt's droplet-dusted shoulder. 

 

Kurt let his head drop back, allowed a groan of pleasure to slip out while he wrapped his own long arms back behind himself and Blaine, digging fingers into spots on Blaine's muscular rear end that he knew were sore from hitting the hard dirt flooring of the salle. Blaine's response was a gutteral moan of his own, whispered into Kurt's skin just before he squeezed his fingers down and pumped harder. His manhood was sliding up and down along the cleft of Kurt's cheeks, propelled by the instinctual shifting of his hips in his arousal. 

 

So tense were they in the silence, in these stolen moments of pleasure and aching, that it wasn't long before both of them spilled hot in the water, Kurt arching upward with Blaine pressed tight against his back. Blaine's grip loosened on Kurt's cock, but his arm across Kurt's chest was still strong, as Kurt's hands were on Blaine's buttocks, the steel grips keeping them locked together as they came down from the high of climax with soft sighs and nibbled kisses. 

 

Kurt melted back against Blaine, letting his head drop back onto his lover's shoulder. “Magic fingers,” he mumbled, words blurred after the release. “You have magic fingers.” 

 

“Does that make you simply magic, then?” Blaine's voice, too, was blunted around the edges but still held a thread of laughter. “For your own fingers came nowhere near my cock, lover, yet still did I spill as if they had been.”

 

“I will not turn down such flattery, no,” Kurt responded with a smile. They lapsed again into silence for a moment, floating in moonlight and afterglow. Kurt moved one hand up from Blaine's rear to scratch firmly at the base of his neck, just where the curls began. A blissful purr slipped from Blaine's lips at the gentle scalp massage. 

 

“Never mind, you also have magic fingers,” he murmured drowsily. Kurt lifted his head to see Blaine's eyes drooping closed, a smile of contentment lighting his face.

 

“Come, Blaine.” Kurt shifted to face Blaine, guiding him to the shore. Exhaustion seemed to have claimed his lover all at once, making him pliant, happy, easy to steer up to the bank where Kurt sat him down and laid out towels for them to recline on. “Here, come here.” He tugged Blaine over to sit down on the towels, drawing him in close and laughing as his lover snuggled right up against his chest. “Hey, now. You can't go to sleep. Not out here.”

 

“Want to, though.” Blaine wrapped his arms tight around Kurt's waist. “Like it here.”

 

“We have to eat.” Kurt hated to do it, but he pushed the other man away and forced him to sit up. “Wake up.”

 

“Fine,” Blaine grumbled, dragging the bag of provisions over. “Here. You eat. 'M too tired.”

 

Kurt fished out two hand size loaves of bread and an apple each. “No. You, too.” 

 

Blaine muttered darkly, and Blaine protested, but eventually Kurt did coax him into eating and into some semblance of alertness. “It's been a long day,” he apologized, the words coming around a bite of apple. 

 

“It's been a long several weeks,” Kurt corrected. “You're exhausted. I should have known better than to agree to this.”

 

“No!” Blaine forced his eyes wide open, striving to look awake. “I'm fine. See?”

 

“We're going back to the manor after we eat.” Kurt chewed at his bread, not looking at Blaine. He was too susceptible to his lover's mournful, puppy-like facial expressions to not take the precaution. Amazing how a man so fierce in the training circle and so sensually aggressive in bed could melt right into a smitten boy when he wanted to do so. If Kurt made eye contact, it was all over. He'd do whatever Blaine asked. So he didn't.

 

Blaine had apparently realized the puppy-eyes weren't going to work this time, though, and had a backup plan. “No, we're not. I had something I wanted to show you while we were out here.” Tossing his bread aside on the towel, he got to his feet and strode over to where the horses were still quietly munching on grass. Kurt took the chance to look up and make visual contact with Blaine's amazing, amazing backside. 

 

_I wonder if they give prizes for such a thing,_ he mused. _They should. He'd win._

 

When Blaine turned back, Kurt noted with surprise that he had his lute in hand. “Where did that come from?” 

 

“I brought it. That's what took me so long. Well, partly.” He sat back down, crosslegged, and began to fiddle with the tuning pegs. The moonlight illuminated him as he worked, gleaming off of his bare skin and water-glossed curls. “I've wanted to play for you. To sing for you.” He looked up, catching Kurt's eyes before he could look away. “This is the music that I had you bring back for me.”

 

The hope and uncertainty in Blaine's gaze was somehow more effective than the sweet puppy-dog look that usually got him his way. It went right to Kurt's heart, curled warm in his stomach and sent trickles of light through his veins. He felt as though he were being illuminated from the inside out. It made him take one trembling breath after another in an effort to steady himself. “I'd love to hear it.” 

 

Blaine smiled. “Good. You were going to whether you wanted to or not.” He ducked his head back down and strummed once, the notes dancing on the air. “There. Amelia and I speak French, did you know?” 

 

The  _ non sequtur _ puzzled Kurt. “Both of you? I knew she did.”

 

“Mmmhmm.” Blaine's fingers danced across the strings, plucking a light melody. “We sing it, as well. This is a tune I've known and loved for a long time...”

 

With a last strum, he launched into it, rich tenor voice as smooth as silk. 

 

_Le souvenir de vous me tue,  
Mon seul bien, quant je ne vous voy.  
Car ie vous jure, sur ma foy,  
Sans vous ma liesse est perdue...  
_

Kurt sat, transfixed, understanding nothing of the words themselves but not failing for a moment to grasp the intent behind them. Blaine gazed steadily at him, all uncertainty gone as his fingers moved up and down the strings, picking the intricate melody without needing to look down. 

_  
Quant vous estes hors de ma veue,  
Je me plains et diz a par moy... _

__ Kurt's heart was twisting again in somersaults, a feeling that should have been excruciatingly painful but somehow wasn't. For the second time in his life, he felt he was on the precipice of something irrevocable.

 

Once again, he knew he would jump. It was only a question of when. 

 

_Seulle demeure, despourveue  
D’ame, nul confort ne recay;  
Et si suffre sans faire effray  
Jusques a vostre revenue..._

 

The last notes wafted off into the night, and Blaine bowed his head over his lute once more, breaking the link of their shared gaze. 

 

Kurt couldn't speak, even though he kept swallowing to get past the lump in his throat. His arms extended out towards Blaine, reaching, grasping, wanting - 

 

It seemed forever before Blaine looked up and realized that Kurt was paralyzed and speechless, read all of the need that Kurt was trying to convey in his eyes. Setting his lute aside carefully, he gathered Kurt close, capturing his lips in a kiss that burned the sweetest fire through Kurt's skin and into where he thought his soul  _ must _ be. The ability to move and speak came back all at once. “What does it mean, Blaine,” he whispered, “What did you sing to me?”

 

As breathless as Blaine was rapidly getting, he was still able to answer. “That I must be near you, always,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against Kurt's and closing his eyes. “That without you, I have no joy, no comfort, I am bereft.” 

 

Kurt pressed forward, pushing Blaine back into the toweling and grass, his hands anchoring himself so that he could look down into the melting gold of his lover's eyes. “Tell me which words mean the most,” he whispered, hushed and low. 

 

“ _ Sans vous... _ ” Blaine's voice was pitched low, his eyes never leaving Kurt's face. “ _ Sans vous ma liesse est perdue _ .”

 

“ _ Sans vous ma liesse est perdue, _ ” Kurt whispered back, the foreign words less certain in his mouth. “Tell me, Blaine. Tell me what they mean.”

 

But Blaine was silent, groping into the bag that still lay near them, extracting the familiar pottery bottle and slicking its contents over his erect cock and hands, pressing fingers to Kurt's entrance, sliding inside, stretching and moving. He kept his eyes on Kurt, once again no speech passing between them. There was nothing but the sound of crickets and the soft music of Kurt's whimpers at the intrusion. 

 

“  Blaine...” The music broke into a groan. “Blaine, tell me.”

 

Oil slick hands gripped his hips, nudged him to kneeling over Blaine's erection. Together, they worked to sink Kurt slowly, slowly, carefully down, accepting all of Blaine into himself until he was completely seated atop Blaine's lap. 

 

Neither of them moved. 

 

“  Tell me,” Kurt whispered, one slight shift of his hips eliciting a gasp from Blaine. He grew bolder, beginning to rise, ever so slightly, and fall, ever so gently. “Tell me, tell me.”

 

Blaine grasped more tightly at his hips and began to guide the movement, thrusting his own hips upward in matching rhythm. “Not yet,” he breathed, neck arching as he tilted his head back into the grass. “Not yet, not until...” 

 

Kurt was lost in the desire that stretched along his limbs, a mire of emotion and lust assailing him from all sides. He rode Blaine slowly, relishing the stretch he felt when he would kneel all the way up until only the head of Blaine's warm cock remained inside of him, then push himself down to feel every inch as it pressed its way back in. 

Their panting and cries of pleasure were all the communication they needed as their enjoyment spiraled. Kurt's hands wrapped around either side of Blaine's waist to brace himself as he moved. When he let out a sharp gasp and closed his eyes tight, Blaine released his hips and reached one hand between them to envelop Kurt's aching member, beginning the series of strokes that would bring Kurt up to and over the edge.

 

Sparks began to light behind Kurt's closed eyelids. “Blaine, oh, Blaine - ” But that was all he got out before he was done, exploding in fire and pleasure and light and one long, keening cry that sent sleeping birds racketing from their nests into the heavily wooded pine grove that surrounded them. 

 

As he came down, he became aware that Blaine hadn't gone over, was still moving inside of him. He'd returned both hands to Kurt's hips and was once more gazing steadily up at him as he thrust upwards. When Kurt felt that he could make sense, he leaned carefully down and sucked Blaine's lower lip in between his teeth. “Tell me,” he said again. “Tell me what they mean, Blaine.” 

 

Blaine shook his head when Kurt released him. “Almost...almost...” He pushed Kurt down hard on his cock, thrusting up at the same time and sending a blinding thrill through him. “Ah - ” 

 

“  Please,” Kurt begged.

 

Blaine pushed again. “Without you...” he panted, catching his breath for a second before continuing to whisper into Kurt's ear. “Without you...I...” 

 

Kurt pushed down, squeezed around Blaine. “You what?” 

  
“Without you, my joy is lost,” Blaine said, rushed and clear before rocking his head back and his hips up one last time as he burst hot and violent inside of Kurt. 

 

The words exploded similarly within Kurt's consciousness, blasting like a wildfire through his brain. They left no coherent thought behind, forcing him to function on reflexes still reeling from his own climax. 

 

“Blaine,” he gasped wildly, “Blaine, I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, MotherGoddamn. Whatever would I do without you cheering me on? Love for you, my marvelous beta. Love also to my readers and express thanks to those who leave feedback, so appreciated.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, all it takes is the shifting of a pebble to set an avalanche in motion.

“Pretty day,” Kurt remarked as he stared out of the carriage window.

 

In the seat across from him, Amelia was nodding blandly. “It certainly is.” Not that she was looking out the window herself; having all of her attention focused on the fine silk thread and knitting pins in her lap. 

 

Thad, seated next to her, simply sniffed in – agreement? Indifference? Kurt couldn't tell. 

 

They were hardly out of sight distance of Dalton House and this was already the most uncomfortable carriage ride of Kurt's short life. Given that his traveling companion to Oxford had been _Jesse St. James_ , to say that this ride was worse was nearly unbelievable – that trip had set a rather high standard for things that Kurt considered miserable and uncomfortable. Yet here was Thad, quite handily pushing the standard ever higher.

 

The difference, Kurt suspected, was that Thad's dislike of Kurt appeared to be as intense as Jesse's, with less history or reason behind it. Well, no, wait. Thad was Blaine's former lover, and all indications were that it had ended badly. That in and of itself did lend a rather special sort of awkwardness to the situation. It made Kurt want to curl up in a ball in the corner of the carriage and ignore everything until they were in town.

 

But that would be childish and wrong. At least the ride was relatively short.

 

Amelia, social butterfly and general sweet person that she was, did try to engage the recalcitrant valet in conversation. “So, the Baroness' new gown is finished! I know you've seen it while they were creating it, is it stunning? Were you involved in designing it at all? You've such an eye for color, Thad...”

 

Kurt stopped listening and went back to window gazing. That was why Thad was with them, of course. Alice had heard he and Amelia discussing their plans over the morning meal and brightened up. “You're going into town? Perfect! Mistress Sylvester has sent a message that she's finally completed my new gown. Thad can ride with you to Oxford to retrieve it!”

 

Amelia and Kurt had exchanged a concerned glance. Amelia simply didn't want anyone intruding on their excursion, no matter who it was. Kurt, though, had absolutely no desire to be trapped once again in a carriage with someone who despised him. It wasn't really his idea of fun. “I don't mind going in for you, if you'd like,” he'd offered. “It would save Thad the trip.”

 

But Alice had shaken her head. “That's quite kind of you, Florian, but no. Mistress Sylvester is...” She paused, tapping her lower lip with her spoon while she sought a delicate way to put it. “...difficult. She requires delicate handling, dear.” She smiled in gratitude at his offer and continued. “Frankly, if she weren't the absolute best at what she does – she handpicked the girls who do her beading and brocading and you'll never find a team more skilled and brilliant – I wouldn't deal with her at all. Absolutely vile woman, really. No, thank you, Florian, I'd rather spare you the misery.”

 

There was really no way to convey to her that what she was actually doing was substituting one misery for another. He sighed and tried to turn his thoughts in a happier direction.

 

“ _Blaine, I love you.”_

 

_Blaine had stilled beneath him, eyes wide and fingertips digging into Kurt's hips. “What?”_

 

_He'd already wanted to snatch the words back out of the air, despaired at the knowledge that he couldn't. “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” Kurt babbled, feeling his own eyes grow huge in horror. “I didn't say anything.”_

 

“ _Yes, you did.” Blaine sat up with care, wrapping an arm around Kurt's waist to keep him seated on his lap. Placing his hand on Kurt's cheek, he looked deep into his eyes, searching. “Say it again, please.”_

 

“ _No...don't...” Only the hand on his cheek kept him looking at Blaine. Nothing could keep his eyes from beginning to sting or his face burning red. “Don't make me, I'm sorry, I never meant to say it – I know you can't feel the same -”_

 

“ _Florian,” Blaine interrupted, surprise all over his face. “I'm not sure how it escaped you, but I've just told you that not being in your presence makes me unhappy.” He pulled Kurt's face closer so that he could kiss him, sweetness and reassurance plain in his every touch. “Please, say it again.”_

 

_Kurt breathed in deeply, closing his eyes. “Blaine, I love you.”_

 

_Another kiss, then - “Florian, I love you as well.”_

 

Kurt came back to the present with a jolt. 

 

_Florian._

 

It was the only flaw in what was otherwise the most perfect moment of Kurt's life. The man he loved had, once again, spoken the wrong name. 

 

Never mind the larger problem that the _life_ of the man he loved could be in danger, if Jesse St. James found out about him. Kurt felt his mouth tighten in worry. Could nothing go right, ever? 

 

“You seem distressed.”

 

Kurt looked up in surprise when Thad spoke. The words had been flat and uninterested – he couldn't imagine for one second that Thad actually cared whether or not he was distressed – but it would be rude not to answer. “A bit tired, is all,” he responded carefully. “And I'm working on a particularly difficult piece of music for Amelia and myself, it takes quite a lot of my attention.” 

 

“You don't have a book out,” Thad observed. 

 

“Well, I can work on things in my head,” Kurt sniped back. “But I do have the book here. I was merely attempting to run through it and ensure I had it memorized.” Pulling the slender volume out of his satchel, he displayed it by ruffling the pages. To his horror, however, one of his letters from St. James fluttered out of the pages and landed on the carriage floor between them. Swift as he could, he leaned down to retrieve it.

 

Thad was there first. “Letter from home?” he inquired, picking up the folded parchment and casting an idle glance at the name on the front of it. Thank God it _had_ been one of Jesse's letters, Kurt thought, and not one from his father with his real name on it. The close call made his heart feel as though it would beat right out of his chest. It took considerable effort to reach out and try to take the letter from the other man without betraying his nerves. 

 

“Yes. I try to keep a steady correspondence with my father,” he lied, tugging at the parchment. But Thad wouldn't let it go. Frowning, Kurt pulled harder. “Excuse me. My letter?”

 

The valet let it go abruptly, causing Kurt to fly back a bit when the tension between them was released. “Apologies,” was Thad's only reply as he leaned back in his seat and directed his gaze out at the passing countryside. 

 

Kurt smoothed the letter and tucked it back between the pages of his songbook. So close. Too close. Not that Thad could know what it was, but what if it hadn't been folded? What if, as he'd thought before, it had been a letter from his father with _Kurt Hummel_ scrawled across the fold in Mistress Corcoran's tidy handwriting? He had to find a better hiding place for his letters, but he had no idea where that place might be. He had few enough possessions, most of them being books. It had seemed an ideal solution at the time, simple, elegant, and almost foolproof since the only people who ever went into any of the bedchambers at Dalton without invitation were the chambermaids. 

 

Perhaps he merely had to be more careful to be sure to remove any letters from his books before he took them out of his room. Or perhaps he could find a box somewhere to keep them in, one he could lock. Or hide them under the featherbed. Or did it matter? It wasn't as if anyone knew about him but himself, so no one was looking for them. 

 

He was simply being paranoid, Kurt decided. He pushed the thoughts away and opened his book, settling down to spend the rest of the tense carriage ride as if studying. 

 

Kurt didn't realize that Thad glancing at him from the corner of his eye, speculation and curiosity rampant in his gaze. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

_My, but that was an interesting reaction to a dropped letter_ , Thad thought with glee as he pretended not to look at Florian.  _One would almost think he was afraid I'd see its contents._

 

He had been diligent since sending his desperate prayer Heavenward, watching the singer closely for any opportunity to effect his undoing – only to be stymied by the man's evident campaign to qualify for sainthood. Florian Renner put not one foot out of line, ever; when he wasn't with Amelia or Blaine, he could often be found in the company of Miss Pillsbury, helping her card lambswool or even bake bread, simply because he found it to be entertaining. 

 

Florian was tidy almost to a fault, polite to everyone, well spoken, quiet – apart from his bedroom activities, he was a man of many virtues and no apparent vices. It was, Thad decided, quite the most maddening thing in the world. It wasn't enough to be stupidly good-looking and possessing a voice the Pope would trip over himself trying to claim for the Church, he had to be a walking paragon as well! 

 

Thad had truly been on the verge of giving up until this possible opportunity had dropped into his lap. Well, onto the floor of the carriage. Semantics. 

 

Seeing Renner go even more pale than usual, watching his throat and jaw tighten and his visible effort to keep his hands from shaking...yes. Yes, that letter was something Thad wanted to read. Perhaps it would say nothing of importance. And of course it would be quite risky, trying to get into the man's room to find it. Not to mention Florian would be sure to move it to another hiding place as soon as they returned to Dalton House. 

 

Still, Thad would be a fool not to at least attempt it, and Thad Lawrence was determined that no one should ever think him a fool, not even himself, not ever again. 

 

The carriage had lapsed into the awkward silence that fell between people who had nothing to say to each other. Amelia kept herself busy with figuring out how to knit something that looked like hose. Renner had his book in his lap and was humming quietly under his breath as he ran his finger across staves of music. Normally, Thad knew, they'd be chattering like birds, but his presence in the carriage was likely putting a damper on that. 

 

Since he'd brought nothing with him, all Thad could do was stare blankly out of the window and ponder how he'd gotten here, to a place where he was willing to rifle through a man's belongings in an effort to destroy his life. Or at least get him away from Thad's life. Whichever came to pass, it was not how he'd been raised, and he did feel a twinge of guilt whenever he glanced across the carriage at the blamelessly studying singer. 

 

Then Renner would tug at his doublet collar and inadvertently reveal the purpling bruise of a fierce kiss, or he would stretch and wince as if his muscles were still sore from athletic bouts of lovemaking, and the slow burn of jealousy would spark in Thad's stomach, spreading into his chest and up his throat until he was near to choking with it. And he would remember why he was doing it. 

 

_He mattered_ . He did. He was no one to be tossed aside like refuse, not after all he'd given up. And yes, Thad knew that all of this came dangerously close to the sin of pride, but what had he to fear from sin now?

 

After all, it wasn't as if he was looking to murder the man. He just wanted him out and away from Dalton House so that Thad could restore things to their rightful order and matter once more. Probably his life wouldn't even be  _destroyed_ , really. Thad was just forcing him to relocate. That's all. He was sure Renner would do the same thing if it were he in Thad's position. 

 

By the time the rooftops and towers of Oxford were visible, he'd once more managed to completely rationalize his actions, and his guilt was non-existent.

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Kurt breathed out a sigh of relief after Thad had alighted from the carriage and disappeared into the ornate stained glass doors of Mistress Sylvester's shop. Amelia chuckled. “Come now, Florian. It wasn't so bad.” 

 

“He doesn't like me,” Kurt countered as the carriage began to move to its next destination. “And he used to be Blaine's lover. I don't quite know if he's aware of what is between Blaine and I, but the fact that he clearly detests me and always has is quite awkward enough to be going on with, thank you.”

 

She raised one eyebrow. “Oh, really? Try being one of the women who caught him with his pants down. Quite literally.” 

 

“Fair enough. You win. My apologies.” The carriage pulled up to the front of the Puckermans' shop. Kurt got out first, turning to help Amelia down. “Let us agree that it was uncomfortable all around, and to hope that after the return journey, it will be nothing that requires repeating.”

 

Taking his extended arm, Amelia nodded. “Agreed.” A frown darkened her face as she caught sight of the storefront. “Florian, didn't Noah say they'd be open today?” 

 

“He sent us a note to confirm, yes.” Kurt looked up. “Hm. They don't look it, do they?”

 

“Not at all.” She tugged him forward and pushed at the door, blinking in surprise when it opened. They stuck their heads in and peered around, noticing that fewer oil lamps were lit and that Rachel wasn't swishing around the shelves, returning books to their places and singing a cheerful melody. “Noah? Rachel?”

 

Noah emerged from the back room, finger over his lips to signal for their silence. “Rachel is unwell this day. Her head. I have her resting in our quarters.” 

 

“Oh.” Amelia's disappointment spoke for both herself and Kurt. “That's a shame. We brought her a present. Well, it's for the baby, I suppose we brought it for both of you.” She pulled a neatly wrapped bundle from her basket and pressed it into the shopkeeper's hands. “Here. Why don't you open it, then?”

 

He turned the package over in his large, brown hands, a small smile playing around his lips. “Thank you, Lady Amelia.” He set the bundle atop a pile of songbooks and began to undo Amelia's carefully tied knots and bows with surprising delicacy, unfolding the linen wrapping back to reveal a pile of soft white fabric. The lines and traces of vines, leaves and flowers were scattered across its surface in a riot of color, the fine silk thread that Amelia had used glowing in the faint sunlight that shone in through the shaded windows. 

 

“My lady...” Noah's voice was hushed in awe as he picked up the blanket with care, turning it this way and that to see all of what Amelia had stitched onto it. Kurt couldn't blame him – this was his own first glimpse of the thing, and it stunned him into silence.

 

Amelia was beaming at the reaction. “Oh, I am so pleased that you like it. I wanted to make something so very special for your first child. It's only right.” 

 

The burly man seemed choked up, his eyes slightly glassy as he ran his hands so gently over the baby blanket. “It is truly special. Rachel will probably cry over it. My lady, it's too much – I cannot thank you enough.” 

 

She shook her head. “Thank me by letting me hold the baby wrapped in the blanket when he's born. Or she.” Her smile lit up the room. “Have you names selected?” 

 

“Eli, if it is a boy,” Noah informed them after he'd seemed to swallow down a lump in his throat. “Naomi, if a girl.”

 

“Lovely. Just so wonderful.” Amelia had clasped her hands together at her bosom and couldn't seem to stop smiling. “Oh, Noah, is Rachel truly too poorly to receive visitors?”

 

“I'm sorry, my lady,” and indeed Noah did seem quite apologetic. “She really is feeling quite unwell. I would have her sleep as much as she can, and keep up her strength.”

 

“Come, my lady.” Kurt took her elbow gently and tried to hide that he was as disappointed as she. “We can come back another day. Perhaps we can bring her some of Emma's nutbread. That always makes me feel better when I'm not well.”

 

Noah looked hard at him when he spoke. “Ah, Master Renner. I'd forgotten you were here, so quiet have you been.” He moved to the counter in the back of the shop. “I've correspondence for you.” 

 

“Excellent.” Kurt shifted past Amelia to follow the man, his hand outstretched in nervous eagerness even before he'd reached the counter. He frowned to see a familiar and worrying thunderous expression on Puckerman's face.

 

“I warn you again, Renner,” Noah gritted out in a hoarse whisper, “bring no trouble to my shop, my home, my wife, my _child_. Are we clear?”

 

“I'm doing my best,” Kurt hissed back. “Do you think I enjoy being under St. James' thumb?”

 

“I remind you only because the stakes for me are higher now.” He shoved the letter into Kurt's hand. “Tread with care. His letters to me of late have been darker. I care not for this. If you are playing some sort of game, I suggest you stop.”

 

“Thank you, Noah.” growled Kurt in return. “I assure you that were I in fact playing a game that I would take your concern under advisement.”

 

Puckerman looked unsatisfied, but he must have figured out that he'd get no more out of Kurt. “All right then.” He looked up at Amelia. “My lady, if there's nothing I can find for you today, I shall go tend my wife. Will we see you again soon?” 

 

“Absolutely.” She put on a bright smile to cover her sadness at being unable to see Rachel. “Florian? Shall we go find some way to pass time before we're to meet Thad?”

 

He shrugged and tucked the letter into his beltpouch, saving it to read for when he was safely in his own room at Dalton. “Why not? A town so large as this, I'm sure we can find something.” 

 

They spent the afternoon prowling the shops of Oxford, Amelia picking up lengths of ribbon, pairs of gloves, and a pretty veil as she went. Kurt confined his purchases to the sweet shop – though he did rather overindulge, with the intention of bringing presents back for Emma and Blaine. 

 

By late afternoon, they were back in the carriage, Amelia with her knitting and Kurt with his book, passing bags of sweets between them while they waited for Thad. “Didn't we agree to meet after the late afternoon bell?” Kurt asked, glancing out of the carriage window towards the tightly shut doors of Mistress Sylvester's shop as he sucked on a sugared almond. 

 

“We did,” Amelia confirmed, not looking up. “But Mistress Sylvester is quite exacting. No gown leaves her shop before passing her final inspection. Thad is probably waiting for her to say that it is all right to go.”

 

“Shouldn't the final inspection have taken place before she sent word to Baroness Linwood that it was done?” Kurt frowned in confusion. “And Lady Alice has already paid for the gown besides, shouldn't she be allowed to take it if _she_ thinks it's done?”

 

Amelia looked up with a thoughtful expression on her face. “I've heard tell that someone once pointed that out to Mistress Sylvester, long ago,” she mused. “Never did get her dress, in the end. Though she did receive a pile of shredded fabric that _might_ have been a gown at one point...” 

 

“Never mind, I understand.” Kurt refused to consider the towering rage Alice would fly into were she presented with a destroyed gown. The very notion frightened the whey out of him. 

 

Still, Thad's increasing tardiness was worrying. Setting the rendezvous time that they had was supposed to have ensured that they'd get back just before the evening meal, giving Kurt enough time to wash up and then read the letter. It was bound to be short; all of Jesse's letters were. He didn't need _much_ time, but he did need that specific time to ensure privacy as he read. 

 

But the later Thad ran, the less likely he'd be to read the letter before dinner. Then he had fighting practice with Blaine, and after that, they'd planned to spend the night together. If the carriage didn't get back when he'd planned, his chance to read the letter in safety was lost. And he couldn't let the foul thing fester overnight. He'd only get more and more tense and worried as the evening slipped by. 

 

A commotion at the door of the shop jarred him out of his fretful reverie and sent both he and Amelia scrambling to peer out of the windows so as to catch a glimpse of what was happening. They saw Thad emerging, fair staggering under the weight of the linen wrapped bundle in his arms. “Good God,” Kurt blurted as he took in the size and probable heft of the thing, judging by Thad's difficulty. “Did the Baroness order a dress or a barge?” 

 

“Put your back into it,” barked the imposing blonde woman standing in the shop door, fists on her hips and a sneer on her face. Her gimlet glare was so sharp that Kurt was genuinely surprised that it didn't result in holes drilled right through Thad's head. He shoved forward to push the carriage door open while the woman's diatribe continued. “I've got girls in my shop who haven't even got their courses yet, and they can lift that gown with less effort than you're using!” She caught Kurt's astonished stare. “Just what are you gawking at, Ladyface?”

 

He was not proud of the squeak of fear that emerged from his mouth as he threw himself backwards, as far into the depths of the carriage as he could manage. Amelia tittered. “You were warned that she was a vile, frightening woman.” 

 

“The reality far, far outstrips the expectation, I assure you,” he muttered. “Thad? Will you be needing assistance?”

 

“No. The coachman is helping,” Thad replied coolly, hoisting himself into the carriage and holding his arms out for the bundle. “Apologies for the delay. We'll only just get back in time for dinner, I'm afraid. That evil hag kept me waiting while she inspected the damn – apologies, Lady Amelia – the blasted gown three times.”

 

As the door shut and the carriage pulled out, Kurt heard nothing except the distressing fact that they would arrive right at dinner time. He'd lost his only chance to read the letter today. 

 

Unless he took the risk of reading it here and now. The parchment felt as though it were burning a hole in his beltpouch. Kurt bit his lip as he considered. He'd already slipped up once with a letter today – dared he chance a second occurrence? 

 

If he didn't, his entire evening would be consumed with thinking about it, the hard-won time alone with Blaine haunted by thoughts of what poison awaited Kurt's attention. He would be damned if he'd allow St. James to ruin that time, even in letter form. 

 

No, it was best to read it now. 

 

Extracting it from the pouch at his waist as quietly as possible, keeping an eye on his traveling companions to be sure he didn't disturb them, it was the work of a moment to unfold and begin reading. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

At the sound of a choked off gasp from across the carriage, Thad looked up from fussing with the bundle draped across his lap. The sight that greeted him was more interesting than he could have anticipated. 

 

If Renner had gone pale before just from dropping a letter, he was ghostly white now while reading what might have been a new one. Even the hint of pink that was normally present in his cheeks had vanished, leaving a pallor that would have looked more healthy on a corpse. More telling was the fact that his hands were shaking, causing the parchment he held to flutter like a hummingbird's wings. 

 

Amelia was gazing at the singer in concern, but Thad spoke up first. “Bad news from home?” 

 

Renner jerked his gaze away from the paper and trained wide, frightened eyes on Thad for a split second before gathering himself back together. Still, a gulping swallow before he spoke revealed that it was only a facade. “A bit. Ah, my father is ill. Again. He's working too hard.” 

 

“That's a shame,” Thad replied casually before letting Amelia take over the conversation. _And a complete lie,_ he thought with no little satisfaction. Sick fathers didn't elicit that sort of response. Dead ones, perhaps, but not sick ones. No, whatever that letter was about, it wasn't about Renner's father. Thad would have bet his last coin that it was related to the letter from earlier, as well.

 

This, then, really was the opportunity for which he had been waiting. It had to be. Which meant he had to get his hands on those letters. As if to underscore how perfectly things were falling into place, Thad knew that the man would be fully occupied from dinner onward, first with a fighting lesson and then he'd be holed up in Blaine's room for the rest of the night. This would be the one and only time that Thad was actually grateful for Blaine's apparent inability to keep his hands off of his lover. 

 

He hid his smile by resting his chin in his hand and staring out at the blur of the scenery moving outside of the carriage. Truly this was a blessing from God, a confirmation that he was in the right. The signs could not be more clear! 

 

As had the journey into Oxford gone, so was the return home – silent and a bit uncomfortable. Thad ignored Amelia's efforts to soothe Renner, barely acknowledged Alice's delight at her finished gown, and bolted his dinner before escaping to his room to wait with impatience for Blaine and his bothersome pet singer to depart for their session in the salle. 

 

He worried as he waited, despite his faith and conviction that he was in the right. What if he couldn't find it right away? Thad was certain that this would be his only chance at this. Whatever was in that letter had obviously shaken Renner to the core, therefore it must be vital to Thad's efforts to evict him from Dalton House. Surely things would continue on smoothly, would allow him to make the most of this single opportunity. 

 

All he could do was wait. Wait, and pray. 

 

When night was fully descended and he was sure that Blaine and Florian were completely occupied in the salle, he made a swift round of the manor to ensure that no one else would get in his way. To his continued satisfaction, his path appeared to be utterly and completely clear. 

 

He had to move swiftly. As he crept through the corridors, Thad made sure to stay in the shadows, his all-black ensemble helping him to blend in. He had taken care to exchange his boots for slippers, so as to step as softly as possible. And of course, he paused whenever he thought he heard a sound, waiting until he was sure he was still alone before continuing. 

 

It was on one of these pauses that he found himself by a window – turning his head and inching ever so carefully over to peer out of it revealed that it was one overlooking the salle. He had a direct view into it through the windows circling the roof of the other building. 

 

And there they were. Thad watched as Florian, face set in determination, flung himself across the training circle at Blaine, taking the shorter man down and wrestling him into a painful looking hold. A decisive moment unburdened with hesitation found him whipping out a dagger and laying it across Blaine's throat, wiggling his eyebrows as he said something that made both of them break up into laughter. As Thad continued to look on, Blaine yanked one of his arms free and traced his hand down Florian's cheek before pulling him in for a brief kiss. 

 

Thad's stomach tied itself in painful knots before he could force himself to tear his eyes away and keep moving. He wasn't far from his goal, and now with the sight of his former lover and that _usurper_ burned forever into his mind, his determination was renewed. Only a few more doors – turn a corner and – there. 

 

He'd arrived. 

 

The door was easily pushed open – apparently Renner felt safe enough, trusted the chambermaids and household enough to not lock his door behind him when he left the room. Foolish of him, but convenient for Thad's purposes. He could only hope that their arrival so close to dinner had forced the harried man to simply put his bag down, not having time to empty it and return the books to their shelves. “God be with me, “ he breathed before stepping inside. 

 

A quick look revealed that this had been too much for which to hope. The satchel lay empty on Renner's desk, whatever books had been in it neatly reshelved. Thad muttered an oath and then a quick apology to God under his breath. He only remembered that the book with the letters had been bound in red cloth. There were at least a half dozen red books sprinkled among the blue, brown, and green volumes. 

 

No time to waste. Thad began pulling books down one at a time, taking care to replace them exactly in their places when he was done. Success was his with the fourth book – as he ruffled the pages, two folded sheets of parchment fell out and dropped to the ground. Stooping, he picked them up. 

 

This he had no plan for. He'd thought about taking the letters, but that couldn't work. Renner would miss them. They were a page each, though, so he could read them in a short amount of time. That was a start. Then he could figure out what to do from there. 

 

Unfolding the letters under the bright light of the moon, he glanced at the dates neatly written at the top of each page. One was marked three days ago – that must have been the one received today. He shuffled it behind the other one, dated mid-March. He would begin with that one. 

 

_You have a job to do, Renner._ The writing was neat, tidy, but somehow sharp and spiky, as if the letter writer were angry.  _I sent you with specific instructions as regards Viscount Dalton. Very specific, very simple. Even a dolt like you with fewer brains than the horses you used to train should be able to remember them and carry them out. A progress report is required, and soon. You don't want to anger me. - JSJ_

 

Thad frowned. A job to do? With instructions? And it was something to do with Blaine? Hurriedly, he brought the other letter to the front. 

 

_I lack the capacity for further patience. You will meet me at the inn in which we stayed upon our arrival in Oxford, and you will explain to me why your very simple mission has turned into such a failure. 3 rd May after dinner, and you know the consequences if you don't show up. - JSJ_

 

He shoved the letters back into the book and replaced it on the shelf, his face still set in a frown of confusion and anger. How dare Florian Renner come here under false pretenses and seduce Blaine? What were his instructions? What was his purpose? And who was this JSJ, some lover that Renner had conveniently failed to let Blaine know existed? Thad had too many questions, and the two letters hadn't provided nearly enough answers. 

 

As he was about to decide to look for another letter to fill in the blanks of his knowledge, the sound of bright laughter outside the window alerted him to the fact that Blaine and his traitorous paramour must have finished with their lesson and were exiting the salle. He was out of time. 

 

Thad slipped back through the corridors the way he came, ducking into an empty guest room when he heard footsteps on the stairs. “I'll just get my robe and be in your room soon, love,” he heard Renner whisper. 

 

“You should just _keep_ the damn thing in my room,” Blaine chortled, raising a lump of anger like coal to burn in Thad's throat. “You're there more often than you aren't.”

 

“That would defeat the point of secrecy, wouldn't it?” The sound of a kiss. “The work of a moment.”

 

Thad's resolve to work out what was going on and use it to his advantage was further firmed, but he knew he wouldn't have another chance to search out more letters. It was too risky - once he was lucky, twice he'd surely be caught. That left only one course of action. 

 

He would just have to follow Renner to his rendezvous, see what was going on, and then blackmail the traitor into leaving Dalton for good. 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the tinder is this dry, it takes but a spark to ignite a conflagration.

_I lack the capacity for further patience._

 

The words throbbed in Kurt's mind over the next three days as if branded there. His worst fear and nightmare was coming to pass. 

 

Outwardly, he proceeded as if all were fine. Lessons with Amelia. Sparring with Blaine and sometimes David – the Marshal was still determined to at least instill some competency with a sword into him. Continuing to study music as if he'd have need to for much longer. 

 

But his brain was a hotbed of panic and fear, working frantically every day to find a way, some way, any way out of this. Still did nothing occur to him. All that made sense, however little he wanted it to do so, was that Jesse St. James was coming to Oxford. And Jesse St. James was very, very upset with Kurt. 

 

His only solace was that Jesse had not mentioned his father. Kurt hoped that meant that Burt was safe. He clung to that faint spark as tightly as possible to keep from descending into madness while time ticked away towards his rendezvous with St. James. 

 

Almost instantly, his appetite withered and died. Emma made lamb stew, roasted an entire pig, and even made a special batch of nutbread just for him, but everything tasted of dust and acid in his mouth. He assured the little housekeeper that it was nothing she'd done, perhaps he was just coming down with something. Which landed him in bed with poultices and possets and both Emma and Amelia at his side fussing in worry. 

 

“I'm fine, Amelia,” he croaked once in exasperation as she tried to make him down a vile concoction that smelled like it had cod liver oil in it. “And if I weren't fine, I'm fairly certain that whatever you're trying to get me to drink would _make_ me not fine.”

 

“If you were fine, you'd eat,” she countered, reaching to pinch his nose shut so that he would be forced to open his mouth for the spoon in Emma's hand.

 

He'd had to choke down an entire bowl of warm milk and toasted bread before the two of them believed him and relented. It may have tasted all wrong, Kurt reasoned, but it had to be better than whatever they'd been trying to get down his throat. The added bonus of eating meant that the women allowed him to leave his bed on day three. 

 

Just in time to realize that it was the third of May and he still had no earthly idea what he was going to do to get out of this. All he could think was that he had to offer the performance of his life to convince St. James that he was still executing their plan and that everything was absolutely fine. 

 

And then maybe somehow convince Blaine to pack up and leave Dalton? “Ugh, no,” Kurt muttered to himself, thumping his fist on his forehead. That would never work. Blaine was hard at work with his role in the upcoming battle, he'd never be able to leave a job undone. Besides, what possible reason could Kurt give to convincine him to do it? 

 

Could he enlist Noah's help somehow? Despite St. James' threats towards that quarter, he thought he would work out something to ensure Rachel's safety. It would be easier to get a small family out of the country than an entire household, and Noah would know  _why_ they had to leave, something Kurt would never be able to explain to Blaine.

 

A chill went through him as he realized that if he went through with that plan, there was something else he'd never be able to explain to Blaine: his true identity. 

 

He would have to be Florian Renner for the rest of his life.  _No. No, no, no,_ his mind, instincts, and soul rebelled. He couldn't do it. Couldn't go on with hearing the wrong name whispered in the heat of intimacy, couldn't go on hearing it precede Blaine's whispered  _I love you_ , couldn't go on seeing it scrawled on the outside of letters that held only ill tidings.

 

No, that would not do at all, either. 

 

As the hours of the day slipped away into afternoon, Kurt could not shake off the feeling that time was marching him inexorably onward to his own execution. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

“I'd like to go into town tonight, Blaine.” Florian's voice from the study stopped Thad in his tracks. “A colleague of mine from home is staying in Oxford and has asked me to dinner. Would it be all right if I borrowed Granite?”

 

Thad had wondered how Renner was going to arrange this, and now he had his answer. The excuse was plausible and Blaine, trusting, loving Blaine, well, he'd never ask for proof. The horse issue did give Thad pause – that had been how he was planning to get to Oxford. What if they both took the same route? Damnation. 

 

But Blaine solved that problem in the next breath. “No, lover,” he replied in an absent tone, and Thad heard the shuffling of parchment. “If you're going that late, I'd rather you take a carriage. It's safer.” 

 

_Excellent_ . Thad would be able to set off after Renner did, allowing him to execute a critical part of his plan – but then he'd still be able to take the familiar shortcuts into Oxford and beat the man there, enabling him to follow behind.  _Thank you, my Father._

 

Renner spoke, bringing Thad's attention back to earth. “But, Blaine - ” 

 

Cloth rustled against cloth, and Blaine's voice came muffled now, as if he had buried his face in his lover's shoulder. “Please, Florian. For me. I know you can ride a horse perfectly well at night, but you've only made the journey into Oxford on horseback a few times, and always during the day. This would make me feel better. Really, I'd even be all right if you stayed in town overnight - ” 

 

“Absolutely not.” Florian's voice was firm. “I'm coming right back to you when I'm done. I will concede on the carriage issue, however.”

 

“Thank you.” Blaine's next words were a little amused, a lot breathless. Thad choked back his sudden rage at the thought that they must be embracing and exchanging kisses. “God's breath, Florian, I was going to insist you take all the time you like with your colleague, but if you're going to kiss me like that, then I've changed my mind. Rush home with all haste.”

 

“That was my intention.” The singer sounded disgustingly satisfied, making Thad want to vomit. “I'll go notify the stablemen of my intentions, then. I'll be departing before nightfall.”

 

“So long as you hurry back. I've plans for you.”

 

_As have I,_ Thad thought in satisfaction as he slipped away. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Jesse hated Oxford. Hated it so, so much. 

 

Oxford a sprawling wreck of a town, made notable by the university for which it was named. It was thronged with insufferable academics and the obsequious shopkeepers whose livelihoods depended on their ability to convince men too intelligent for their own good that they needed,  _needed_ whatever garment, book, sweetmeat or other commodity that the merchant had to sell.

 

He hated the constant shouting, the dust kicked up in the streets by countless horses and carriages, the  _smell_ of it all, the smell of bustling humanity and scholarship, sweat and books and piety. It was nothing like his beloved Wales.

 

Even the wine was inferior. Which simply made him angry, because really, in a town like this where everyone thought they were the best of the best, it should not have been that difficult to serve decent wine. Jesse snarled at the cup before him as if it had personally affronted him. 

 

Well. Actually, it  _had._

 

One more tick in the ledger against Hummel, he decided. Because of this mess, he'd had to go without sex for days, he'd had to write a dozen letters and pay as many messengers to send them out, he really had had to hire a food taster just to make sure that Santana didn't attempt to poison him after he'd insulted her – she didn't, but Jesse honestly felt he couldn't be blamed for considering the possibility – and then he'd had to travel to godforsaken Oxford and drink its godforsaken wine. 

 

At this point, had Jesse not already decided to kill Kurt Hummel, this really would have done it for him. 

 

Signaling the serving wench, he returned the cup of wine with a sneer. “Bring me ale, and I certainly hope that it's of higher quality than this swill you call wine,” he snarled, ignoring the offended look on her face. As if she mattered, and as if she'd hang on to being offended when he paid her to fuck him later. If there was one thing Jesse had learned in life, it was this – you could be a colossal bastard, but as long as if you did it with the air of one who was entitled to it and you could pay good money to get away with it, then there was no sense in not doing it. 

 

It was almost a pity that Kurt Hummel had never learned that lesson. Nor, as near as Jesse could tell, had the virtuous Viscount Dalton. Two peas in a pod, those men were. Pious as nuns, undeservedly superior, and steadfast in their morals and convictions. No wonder they hadn't gotten anywhere in five months' time. 

 

_Any nut that is that tough to crack simply needs to be destroyed,_ Jesse decided. The Viscount really was going to have to die, then. York intelligence claimed that he was too pivotal to the Lancastrians to not be neutralized, and since Jesse was fairly certain that the nobleman was already meeting with his peers to plan something, well. Time was clearly running out to simply smash his reputation to smithereens.

 

The very thought of killing two birds with one stone –  _literally!_ he thought with glee – had a profound effect on the libido he'd been stifling for nearly a full sennight. So when the serving wench returned with his ale, which was in fact superior to the wine, to his great satisfaction. He overpaid her generously, and when she looked surprised, he dropped a wink that she understood immediately. 

 

Before too long, they were in his room, skirts shoved up around her waist and Jesse pounding into her from behind, his fingers denting into the soft white flesh of her hips as he pushed himself to a powerful climax. And another. Another. And then twice more before he paid her again and sent her back to her duties. 

 

Truly, nothing did arouse his lust like causing problems for other people. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

The minute the carriage carried him out of a cheerfully waving Blaine's line of sight, Kurt slumped back into the cushions of his seat and covered his eyes with his hand. He didn't have much time to think of what he could tell St. James. 

 

The noose was around his neck. 

 

This was going to require every ounce of sincerity and desperation he could muster – and the only good thing was that neither of these were exactly in short supply, nor were they far from the surface of his churning emotions. More time. He would have to buy more time. 

 

He was going to need it, because he was going to have to tell Blaine. 

 

It felt like a knife straight through Kurt's heart. But the only way Blaine could be protected from Jesse was if Blaine knew about Jesse. Kurt only hoped that the letters he'd kept would show Blaine that he hadn't had any choice in this matter. That he could convince Blaine that while he hadn't come into it expecting to fall in love, it had happened, and it was real. 

 

Because he didn't think he could bear it if Blaine sent him away. He already would not be able to go home, he would be a traitor to Lord Huntingdon. If he lost Blaine as well, he did not know what he would do. 

 

To have lost everything, when all he had ever tried to do was live a good life – Kurt's throat clenched tight in rage as he thought of it. He was a better man than Jesse St. James, yet life had placed him in this monstrously unfair position. No wonder he was never sure whether or not he believed in God; men who professed to, but did vile deeds, were rewarded while he, having done nothing immoral or unethical until forced, was punished. 

 

That was when the idea of murdering Jesse St. James returned to his consciousness. 

 

This time, he began to actually consider how he might do it. At this point, what else had he to lose? He had lost his home, his father, and now he might lose Blaine. 

 

But Kurt Hummel would not go down without a fight. Not now, not anymore. 

 

Not this time. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

“I'll need a horse saddled so that I can ride into Oxford.” Thad pulled on his riding gloves and smiled at the stableman before him. “The swiftest one still here. The chestnut one, perhaps?”

 

“Aye, Autumn's a fine choice, Master Thad.” Liam nodded and grinned back at Thad. “Pity ye didn't come earlier, ye might have traveled with Master Florian.”

 

“Ah, well, that's just it, I'm hoping to beat him there so that I can give him this book that he forgot.” Thad brandished the slender red volume that had, until a short time ago, held the two letters he'd read the other day. “He meant to give it to his friend.”

 

“That's right kindly of ye, Master Thad. Then yessir, we'll get Autumn all saddled up for ye, just the work of a moment.”

 

“Excellent.” Thad kept the smile on his face as he waited. An inspiration struck – perhaps it would come to nothing, but it was worth at least checking. “Did he happen to say where he was going in Oxford? He didn't mention it to me, I don't really want to wander aimlessly looking for him in ever pub and tavern.”

 

“Aye, he did.” Liam's voice came in fits and starts as he lifted the saddle and swung it up over Autumn's back. “Heard him say to the coachman, 'The Owlery.' That's a right nice little inn, it is.”

 

_Indeed it is. Perfect for a lover's tryst,_ Thad thought in triumph. There was no way out of it for Renner now. Quite apart from this little blackmail effort – with any luck, it would work and Renner wouldn't even return to Dalton tonight, he'd just disappear without a trace. Thad even had a money pouch for him, as an added incentive, so he wouldn't have to worry about his belongings, he could just go, leave, and replace them later. 

 

But just in case that didn't work, Thad had a backup plan already in place, one that would be foolproof, no matter how Renner tried to plead his case. He would, of course, do his very best to convince the man to take the bribe – certainly it would go easier on him if he did, and it would be easier on Thad's conscience besides. He just wanted the man gone, after all. That's all.

 

He boosted himself up and into Autumn's saddle and clucked her into a trot, then a canter, and then, when they were outside of Dalton's gates, a full gallop.

 

And Thad wondered how long it would be before what he'd done was discovered. He sincerely wished he could have been there to see it.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Blaine could swear he could actually _hear_ his bones and muscles creaking after that workout. He winced when he bent over to pull off his boots at the kitchen door. “Emma...” 

 

“Yes, my Lord?” The little housekeeper was worried as she bustled over in response to Blaine's summons. “Are you quite all right?”

 

“A bit sore, actually. David's a bull of a taskmaster,” he grumbled. 

 

“You're getting soft in your old age, Anderson,” the Marshal retorted as he came in behind Blaine. “You've been skipping out on swordwork in favor of teaching that little minstrel of yours to fight. It's your own damn fault.”

 

“Language,” Blaine returned mildly. “Emma, may I beg your indulgence and request a hot bath this evening? A good soak is exactly what I need to help my poor abused body.”

 

“Absolutely, my Lord.” She reached up and patted him on the cheek with a fond smile. “I'll put a bit of lavender and mint in it, to help you relax.”

 

“Lovely. My gratitude is yours forever, Emma.” He began the slow, painful shuffle towards his chambers. _Perhaps I can coax Florian into a massage when he returns. That would be lovely. He's lovely. His fingers and hands are very, very lovely._

 

It took an achingly long time for him to traverse the stairs to his rooms, and when he got there he was tempted to simply fall into bed, to send word down to forgo the bath. But he knew he would regret it if he didn't. Not only did he positively stink of sweat, he really did need the heat of the water to leach as much of the soreness from his body as possible. Whimpering only a little, he moved to sit in one of the chairs by the window to await the arrival of the chambermaids with his bath. 

 

Odd. Blaine didn't remember leaving any letters on his table before he went downstairs this morning. And any letters delivered while he was occupied were usually left on his desk in the study. But there were two here now before him, folded sheets of parchment with broken seals and Florian's name scrawled across the front in a sharp, spiky hand. He frowned. They must be from Florian's father, but why would they be in here? 

 

Then he noticed the third sheet of parchment, just a tiny square, really, covered in Thad's handwriting. He picked it up, still frowning. What in the world? 

 

_Blaine,_ Thad had written.  _You need to read these. It's so important, you'll have no idea how important unless you read them. I know you won't want to, but Blaine, please, you must. Remember, no matter how angry we are with each other – I have never lied to you. - T.L._

 

He didn't want to do it. Nausea surged in his stomach as he stared down at the table, his mind screaming at him not to read them. _Don't, don't, it can't be anything good._

 

But Thad had never lied. 

 

Blaine's hand shook as he reached for the topmost letter and slowly unfolded it. 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

 

When Kurt laid eyes on Jesse for the first time since January, he nearly lost all of his resolve. 

 

The Steward had obviously been drinking, though he was not drunk. He'd had enough of whatever he was consuming to sharpen his viper's tongue and remove what few inhibitions he had that kept him from just speaking his mind every second of the day. 

 

“Well, if it isn't England's most useless virgin spy,” Jesse sneered. “How the hell are you? No, wait. Don't answer that. I don't care.”

 

“Charming as always,” Kurt snapped, hoping his bravado was strong enough to cover the quaking he felt inside. “Do you honestly kiss your mother with that mouth of yours?”

 

“Yes, which means I officially see more action than you do,” was the instant retort. “I send you to do one job, Renner. _One._ It cannot be this difficult to get another man in bed.” Jesse slugged back what was left in his cup and signaled the serving wench for more. “I'd understand if he was a stud such as myself, but our reliable sources indicate that he's as deviant as you. And you're not ugly, much as it pains me to admit it. I am, however, beginning to believe that you are much more stupid than even I had thought.”

 

“I'm not -”

 

“Don't.” Jesse waved him to silence and waited for the girl to bring him another ale before resuming. “You must be. Only a stupid man would forget that I have his father within arm's reach and that I not only have threatened to torture and kill him, _I can do it at any time._ With as little provocation as the fact that I don't like your hair today, Renner.” He leaned across the table, his breath smelling not only of the alcohol he'd imbibed, but somehow of something awful and rotten as well, as if his very personality were expressing itself through the common bodily function of breathing. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn't go home tonight and put your father on the rack.”

 

“Because I'll do it. I'll manage it,” Kurt blurted, swallowing down the acid that threatened to strangle him. “In three days time. Don't go home, just...summon your men. I'll do it. I've got him, I can make this happen. I'll stay at Dalton that night – with him.” 

 

“I don't know...” Jesse leaned back and inspected his nails with care, pretending that Kurt didn't exist. “I really do like putting men on the rack. It's so satisfying when their shoulders give way, such a lovely crack and pop...”

 

“Please.” Kurt couldn't keep the cracking out of his voice. “Please, St. James. I won't fail you any longer. Please.”

 

“Well. Since you beg so prettily.” The Steward reached across and chucked Kurt under the chin. “All right. But this is your one and only chance. Fail, and I go straight back home and strap your father into the rack. I hope I am making myself clear.”

 

“As crystal,” Kurt whispered brokenly. “I understand.”

 

“All right. I've arrangements to make. Begone.”

 

He knew confusion creased his brow. “What? Don't I need - ” 

 

“What you need,” Jesse snapped, “is to go back to Crawford Keep and work out how you're going to get that man in bed. Good luck, I suppose, since according to your letters a touch of the fingertips is about as close as you've gotten. Make the most of your chance, and leave all else to me. And really, Renner, _go._ Your weepy face is putting me off of my drink.”

 

There was nothing more for Kurt to do but push away from the table and stumble off, as if he were inebriated. He wished he was. Perhaps he should get a bottle of wine for his journey back to Dalton, give himself a bit of liquid courage before he had to open his mouth and ruin everything. 

 

Hopefully, Blaine would let him stay long enough to help capture Jesse and his men when they invaded Dalton House, and would allow him to perform the _coup de grace_ on the wretched man before Kurt was forced to leave. 

 

It was the least penance Kurt could do for all of the trouble he'd been forced to cause. 

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Thad was confused. 

 

He'd watched the confrontation between Renner and the mysterious JSJ – watched only, he dared not get close enough to listen, lest Renner catch a glimpse of him - and it looked as if it had nothing to do with any lover's tryst. It didn't even look like a lover's spat. What it appeared to be, if nothing else, was a pair of men who clearly hated each other having some kind of heated argument. 

 

In fact, when Renner stormed away, he looked both murderous and on the verge of tears. It was a very puzzling situation from Thad's point of view. 

 

The look on the other man's face as he watched Renner leave was a contemptuous smirk. He seemed to hate Renner even more than Thad did. Interesting. 

 

Actually. 

 

_Very_ interesting.

 

On impulse, he waved over the serving wench and ordered two flagons of ale. As soon as she'd delivered them, Thad got up and moved over to the other man's table, placing one of the cups in front of him. “You don't like him,” he announced without any preamble.

 

The man looked up, a sour expression on his face. “Oh, good, just what I need. Another master of stating the obvious.”

 

Undeterred, Thad sat down. “I dislike him as well. In fact, nothing would please me more than to be rid of his odious presence in my life. I suspect you feel much the same.”

 

“Did I invite you over here?” wondered the other man aloud. “Or am I merely destined to be put upon by men with more good looks than sense?”

 

“I thought maybe we could help each other,” Thad plowed on, trying to ignore just how unpleasant the man seemed to be. For all of his fine clothing and handsome features – and he was handsome, broad shouldered and with tumbling golden brown hair – his attitude was truly vile. 

 

But. He might be of assistance. Thad hadn't gotten to speak to Renner, as lost as he'd been in considering what he'd just seen. That meant he was going to go back to Dalton, to a Blaine who had read the letters and would imprison Renner while he decided what to do with him. Leaving Renner essentially a sitting duck in a prison cell to which Thad had access.

 

So perhaps Thad could convince this man to...kidnap Renner? Take him away and dump him in Scotland or something. Thad still had the pouch full of money, he could pay the man to do it, even. In fact, it seemed like more divine coincidence that things were shaking out this way.

 

“How, pray tell, could _you_ help _me_?” The man across the table was sneering again, his voice full of mocking amusement. 

 

“With money.” Thad pulled out the pouch and shook it so that the coins jingled. “And you could help me get rid of him.”

 

“I'm listening, if only because you won't go away.” He leaned back and drank deeply of his ale. “What's little Florian done to hurt your precious feelings? Not that it's hard to dislike him, arrogant little shit that he is.”

 

“Well, yes, there's that,” Thad mumbled uncertainly. Only the conviction that this had to be a Godsent opportunity kept him going now in the face of such negativity. “But he's also stolen my lover from me.” He left out the fact that his lover hadn't been his in years. That would remove any urgency from his plea. “I can't watch him anymore...can't look upon him without choking in rage...I want him gone.”

 

Now the man looked interested, rather than entirely contemptuous. “Did he, now?”

 

“Did he what?”

 

“Steal your lover.” The contempt was back, accompanied by impatience. “My, but Viscount Dalton gets around. Though why he'd leave someone as clearly intelligent and good looking as you for an idiot like Renner is beyond me.”

 

“I didn't – I never said -” Now Thad was stammering, and not just because the other man's compliment had flustered him. No, he might have been comfortable enough with his preferences in practice, but talking about them was still a terrifying thing. You didn't want just anyone to know or overhear.

 

“You didn't have to. I know who and what Renner was here for.” The other man waved his hand to dismiss Thad's worried murmurings. “I find your phrasing interesting. Stole your lover? I was under the impression that our little singer was a virginal saint.”

 

He couldn't help but snort. “Please. I've seen the marks he leaves.”

 

The other man went still and silent. “Have you?”

 

“Yes.” Thad swallowed. “And it tears the scab off of the wounds every time I see them. I dress the Viscount, you see. I'm his valet.”

 

“Are you, now.” The man's tone was faraway, as was his attention. “So Renner stays over at Dalton House often, then?”

 

Thad frowned. “Of course he does. He lives there, as well, with the Lady Amelia.”

 

“Oh, I see. He'd forgotten to tell me that.” The mysterious man's blue eyes seemed to light on fire with barely suppressed anger. “Well, in that case, this couldn't work out any better, really.” Shoving his flagon aside, he reached his hand across the table to Thad. “What's your name?”

 

“Thad. Thad La -”

 

“Let's stick to first names. I'm Jesse. Have you still got that pouch of money?”

 

He lifted it back up. “Of course.”

 

“Good. Get us a round in, Thad, and we'll talk. I've got an appointment to keep, but I'd like another drink, first.”

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

Kurt had spent the carriage ride back to Dalton racking his brain for exactly the right phrasing he would use to convince Blaine that he'd been mostly blameless in all of this. What could he say? Do? 

 

He was thankful once again that he'd had the sense to keep the letters. They would back him up, prove that he'd been blackmailed into this. All he had to do then was make sure Blaine understood that his love was genuine, and that he had never actually _wanted_ to hurt him. 

 

Kurt would confess everything tonight. There was no other option, no time to waste. Leaping down out of the carriage, he headed up to his room at a full out run, heedless of the fact that others of the household might be sleeping. This was too important. He had to get the letters and go straight to Blaine. 

 

He skidded to a stop in his doorway, rocked with shock to find it open, to see Blaine sitting on his bed, surrounded by unfolded sheets of parchment and open songbooks. 

 

“Blaine...” But the words died in Kurt's throat as his beloved looked up at him with all affection flown from his eyes, leaving only the burning dark fires of anger.

 

“Florian...” Blaine's voice trembled, as if he were holding back his rage with only the most fragile control. “Florian Renner. Oh, lover. I think you need to explain to me right now just who the hell you actually are.”

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

It really was ridiculous, Jesse thought as he gazed down at a sleeping Noah Puckerman, what passed for securing one's home in this town. 

 

Puckerman kept his doors locked, but the upstairs window of his quarters was left open to catch the passing breezes during these warm early summer months. Jesse had nimbly climbed up a stack of wooden crates to the top of the lean-to attached to the shop, and from there it was the work of a moment to slip in through the window and glide silently over to the side of the bed. 

 

Rachel Puckerman lay curled on her side facing the opposite wall, deep in slumber and oblivious to his presence. She actually was rather pretty, all gleaming dark hair and gentle curves. Too bad she was a Jew. No matter what oaths the Puckermans took, no matter what they told the public, Jesse knew what they _really_ were. 

 

Well, that didn't matter at the moment, anyway. He took one more look at the sleeping Rachel before turning his attention back to her lout of a husband. 

 

Hummel was at Dalton. Hummel was fully involved with Edward Anderson. Hummel had been lying, and for God knew how long. And there could be no way Puckerman didn't know something of it. 

 

Which meant that he had been withholding information from Jesse. That made Jesse very, very angry. 

 

Reaching down, he covered the man's mouth and nose with one hand while using the other to press the tip of his dagger into the soft brown skin of his throat. Puckerman came awake instantly, the moonlight illuminating the fact that his eyes were wide with rage and fear. 

 

“I'm going to remove my hand, but not my dagger, Puckerman. Don't you say a damn word. Just listen until I need you to answer me. Can you do that?”

 

A terse nod. Good enough. Jesse pulled his hand back. 

 

“Did you know that Renner had moved into Dalton House?”

 

A flash of fear went through the shopkeeper's eyes. “Yes...I...Lady Amelia mentioned it. The Viscount took her in, Renner went with her.” 

 

“And you didn't think to tell me?” Jesse pushed his dagger a bit more, breaking skin. A dark droplet of blood trickled down Puckerman's neck and stained the white linen of the pillow that supported his head. “Didn't think that perhaps that tidbit of information was something I might need to know?”

 

Puckerman swallowed. “I thought he'd told you...he should have told you, he knew he should have, I'm sure.” 

 

“Yes!” Jesse hissed. “Yes, he should have told me! But he didn't, and you should have thought that he might have neglected to do so, and informed me yourself! What the hell else have I been paying you for, otherwise?”

 

“It was an oversight,” Puckerman blurted, “An oversight, nothing more, I can make up for it! Whatever you need me to do, I'll do it, I can mend this.”

 

“No, Puckerman,” Jesse replied coolly. “At this point I am handling this disaster myself. I'm merely here because you disappointed me.”

 

“No. No, please, St. James, anything.” His eyes were terrified, his entire body trembling in fear. “I swear, I can...”

 

“I warned you what would happen if you disappointed me. Did I not?”

 

“Please. Please, not Rachel. Please.”

 

“Well.” Jesse shrugged. “As you wish.”

 

And in one decisive motion, he slit Noah Puckerman's throat from ear to ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MUCH LOVE for MotherGoddamn, I think I took ten years off of her life with this one.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so must masks come off, truths be revealed, and action taken.

Kurt felt his mouth opening and closing, but couldn't make any words come out. Moving as if pulled by strings, he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. His stomach churned as he took in the sight before him. 

 

Blaine. In his room. With the letters. 

 

He could not even begin to acknowledge to himself how bad this was. 

 

The tense silence stretched between them like ropes drawn taut. Despite the relatively short distance that separated them, Kurt had never felt so far from Blaine. He felt his fingers twitch as if they wanted to move to close the gap. 

 

And Blaine's eyes. His eyes were so, so angry. 

 

Kurt's mind whirled in circles while his voice and body remained paralyzed. This was a turn of events that he'd never anticipated, that Blaine would find out everything on his own. Now, he had no idea how to proceed – and he'd only barely had a plan before. His mind just screamed on and on in endless fear. 

 

Blaine broke the silence first, his voice as cold as his eyes were hot. “I asked you to explain yourself.” 

 

Every syllable was edged in ice, razor sharp and shredding Kurt's heart to ribbons. “Blaine. I...I'm sorry.” 

 

“I'm not asking for an apology, Florian.” Blaine's mouth tightened into a parody of a smile before opening to let a harsh bark of bitter laughter escape. “Which...that is probably not your name, is it? That will be a good place to start, then. What _is_ your real name?”

 

He choked down the dry lump of anguish in his throat. “Kurt. Kurt Hummel.”

 

“Kurt Hummel,” Blaine repeated, shaking his head with a derisive chuckle. “Well, Kurt, I can't say it's entirely a pleasure to meet you, but it certainly is _eventful_. And it explains so much.”

 

His heart broke at the first utterance of his true name on Blaine's lips. It was so cold, with none of the warmth or love he'd hoped to hear when this came to pass. “Blaine,” he pleaded, giving in and stretching a hand out towards his beloved. There had to be a way to fix this. He couldn't have spent the last weeks suspended in the limbo between happiness and fear only to have things end this way.

 

“No wonder David could never find any information on you.” Blaine looked away, jaw clenched and cheeks flushed with his anger. “He looked and looked, but nothing. Because you don't exist. You were never real. A routine look into your background turned into chasing a ghost.”

 

“No. Florian wasn't real.” Kurt pulled back his reaching hand and touched it to his chest, fingers curling into a loose fist over his breaking heart. “I am, though. Most everything that made up Florian was real, because it was me. What I feel for you was real. Is real. Blaine, I do lo - ”

 

“Do _not_.” Blaine leaped to his feet, visibly restraining himself from attacking Kurt. “Do not even _mention_ your love, not now, perhaps not ever. If your own name isn't real, how am I supposed to believe your feelings are?”

 

Faced with anger that was hot enough to almost feel the burn, Kurt didn't know what else to say. “I never meant to hurt you.”  _I tried to find a way out of hurting you_ , his mind shrieked.

 

Blaine turned and swept a hand to indicate the bed and the leaves of parchment scattered across the coverlet. The knowing smirk on his face was as a knife thrusting into Kurt's over-sensitized flesh. “This correspondence, I regret to inform you, would indicate otherwise.”

 

“This correspondence indicates that my _job_ was to hurt you. It was not, however, something I wanted to do. It never was.” Kurt felt his own anger beginning to spark and smolder. “Did you not read _all_ of the letters?”

 

“I read enough.”

 

“No. You did not.” With fury now coursing through his veins like blood, Kurt was jolted into motion, stepping forward to poke Blaine in the chest and rock him back on his heels. “If you had, it would have been made perfectly clear that I was here under duress. Very extreme duress.”

 

Uncertainty dimmed the fires of anger in Blaine's eyes for only a moment. “I don't know that I can believe you.” He knotted a hand in the mop of his curls and pulled, a familiar gesture that usually touched Kurt's heart with affection, but tonight only served to remind him that  _he_ was the target of the rage that motivated it. “I don't even know you!”

 

“That's a festering pile and you know it,” Kurt snapped. “Apart from my name, where I'm truly from, and how long I've been teaching music, everything I've told you has been the absolute truth. I really am a stableman. I really did lose my mother. My father is the most important man in my life, next to you. All of these things are true.” He paused, locking eyes with Blaine. “Including, most especially, how I feel about you.”

 

“Stop. Just stop.” Frustration colored Blaine's voice as he covered his face with his hands, wiping them slowly down his face. “Why are you here? Are you supposed to kill me? Oh, my God, I've been stupid enough to _teach_ you how to kill me!”

 

“If I were here to kill you, I would have done so by now.” He couldn't help the angry sneer in his voice. “As you've just pointed out, I've had ample opportunity. No, Blaine. I'm not here to kill you.” 

 

“Then why?”

 

“I don't know!” The words exploded out of Kurt with all the force of his frustration and fiery anger. “I know _what_ I was supposed to do. But I don't know _why_.”

 

“That makes absolutely no sense!” Blaine shouted back. “No one sends a spy with no knowledge of his mission!”

 

“I'm not a spy!”

 

They locked furious gazes for long moments, molten gold and blue fire sparking with the force of their mutual enmity. Once again, it was Blaine who broke the silence first. “If not a spy, then  _what_ ? What task were you set that you accepted without even knowing  _why_ ?”

 

Kurt wrapped his arms around himself. He'd planned to do this anyway, so he might as well – it wasn't as if he had anything more to lose. He just wished he had been able to do it on his terms. Perhaps then it wouldn't have turned out to be quite so much of a disaster. “I was to seduce you...”

 

A snort from Blaine. “Well, all right, you did get around to that eventually - ”

 

“And get us caught.”

 

Blaine froze, staring at Kurt. “What?”

 

“I was to arrange...” He swallowed back the acid bubbling up from his stomach. “I was to arrange for us to be seen together. In the act of love.”

 

“My God in Heaven.” The words gusted out in a stunned gasp as Blaine sat back down on the bed as if his knees had given way beneath him. “Do you even know the damage you might have done?”

 

“No, Blaine, I thought it would be an endless festival of sex and sugarplums, and maybe at the end of it all we could run away together!” Kurt ground his teeth together in exasperation. “Yes, I know what damage it could have caused! That much, at least, was made perfectly clear to me!”

 

“By whom?” Blaine had shifted into Viscount Dalton, the military strategist and landowner that Kurt had only seen in the company of other noblemen. This had never been a persona directed at him; it was a distinctly unsettling feeling now. “Who sent you?”

 

Loyal spies would probably not spill all the details of their mission to their target, but at this point Kurt didn't feel like he owed Lord Huntingdon any loyalty and he'd probably doomed his father anyway. He didn't care anymore. “There is a separate answer for each of those questions – to answer the second, I was sent by William Herbert.”

 

Blaine's eyes went wide. “The Earl of Huntingdon?”

 

“The same.” Kurt lifted his shoulder in a listless shrug. “He is who employed my father and I to run his stables, and then allowed me to be recruited for this.”

 

“But what quarrel has he with me?” Even as he asked the question, Blaine was snapping his fingers. “They _know_. Damnation! How can they know?” He jumped at Kurt, grabbing him and digging his fingers into his shoulders. “How can they know?”

 

“I don't know!” Kurt yelped in pain. “Please – I don't! They didn't tell me why I was coming here! I don't know _what_ they know! I don't even know what you _think_ they know! Blaine, please, stop, believe me!”

 

As if waking from a trance, Blaine shook his head and realized what he was doing, releasing Kurt abruptly and backing away. “How can you not know? How can you agree to do something like this without knowing why?”

 

“My father.” Kurt rubbed at his aching shoulders. “They're going to kill him...threatened to torture him. Well, you could have read that in the letters, if you'd bothered.”

 

For the first time since their argument began, Blaine actually looked shaken. Soon enough, however, he shrugged it off and continued with his interrogation. “You truly know nothing?”

 

“I worked out some of it. I assume it has to do with this war you've been working on.”

 

Blaine began to nod, caught himself. “Well, if they didn't feel the need to tell you, I won't explain it either. You're too free with spilling secrets when you're caught.”

 

That stung. “What have I got to lose? You're going to have to kill me.”

 

“At what point in our relationship did I give you the impression that I could ever _kill_ you?” Blaine's voice was angry, offended at the very notion. “Do you really think so little of me?”

 

“No! Never! I just thought - ” Kurt faltered. “I thought you'd have to. I've failed...”

 

“I'm not going to kill you.” His voice was a mixture of disgust, disappointment, and the fury that wouldn't die. Leaning forward, he reached out and grabbed at Kurt's lapels, dragging him forward and pinning him in place with his cold stare. “I am, however, going to have to insist that you tell me everything you know. Unless that really _was_ all.”

 

“Yes – wait, no.” Alarm rose in Kurt, driving him to put up his own hands and clutch at Blaine's shoulders. “Oh, God, Blaine, he's coming. I told him to come in three nights' time to fulfill the mission. I panicked, I had to do it. I planned to tell you everything, I hoped if he came here we could kill him - ”

 

“Shut up.” He shook Kurt a little. “Calm yourself. Who's coming?”

 

“Jesse St. James, he's Huntingdon's Steward, he's running all of this and he can kill my father and he is going to come _here_ , Blaine, he is coming to catch us together - ”

 

“The mysterious JSJ of the letters, I presume, and the answer to who told you how to discredit me, but not why. What fun.” Blaine smirked and rolled his eyes as he twisted out of Kurt's grip, turning to face away. “Well, he won't get the chance of that, as I've no intention of being with you again in the first place.”

 

“Blaine.” His heart twisted and lurched, the pain of it a very real and physical thing. He'd never known that it could hurt so much. “Blaine, I'm sorry.”

 

Blaine cast an angry sidelong gaze over his shoulder. “Stop saying that! It's not enough. Not right now, Fl- ugh, Kurt!” He spun on his heel, striding back to shove at Kurt. “Apologies mean nothing! You've gotten me into one hell of a mess.”

 

“I'm sorry.” Regardless of Blaine's opinion, it was all he could think to say. 

 

Blaine began to pace the room, deep in thought, his fury continuing to crackle off of him like a tangible force. Kurt dropped limply to the bed, his own anger now melted away by despair. Yet still he chased down every frantic thought that might help Blaine forgive him. He needed Blaine to forgive him, to trust him – not completely, he couldn't ask for that, he could only ask for  _enough_ trust. So that he would allow Kurt to fight at his side and rid the world of Jesse St. James.

 

Kurt couldn't hope for more than that. He already knew he'd lost Blaine. Every time he thought of it, he had to blink back the stinging in his eyes, to clutch his hand over his heart again as if that mindless gesture were keeping it from dropping out of his body in a thousand pieces.

 

Though he knew it futile, he had to at least try to reach out. With effort, Kurt tilted his head up to watch his lover pace and seethe. “Blaine,” he began, cursing the wavering hesitation he couldn't keep out of his voice. “Blaine...didn't you ever wonder why I kept putting you off when you wanted to make love?” 

 

Blaine stopped in his repetitive stride, turning to look at Kurt. “Because you were a virgin.”

 

“No.” Kurt shook his head. “Because I knew what it would mean.”

 

A contemplative look crossed Blaine's face before he moved to stand before Kurt. “Explain.”

 

“I knew,” he began, choosing his words with infinite care, “I knew that once it had begun, that it was the end. Your end. Once we lay together, I had to alert St. James and it would be over and...I didn't want that.”

 

“Because you were having too much fun?” The mocking tone of Blaine's voice bit into Kurt's spirit, sparking the dying embers of his rage once more.

 

“Because I did not actually want to hurt you, you jackass.” He crossed his arms over his chest as if to protect his twisting, breaking heart. “I was falling in lov - ”

 

“Don't.” The warning was clear. Kurt ignored it.

 

“I was falling in love with you,” he finished, voice strong as it overrode Blaine's objection. “Those weeks before I gave in I was trying to work out a way to keep you safe and my father alive.”

 

“You could have just told me.” Back to the icy cold. “Or did you not trust that I would be willing to help your father?”

 

“Would you have believed me?” Kurt countered. “I'm not sure you believe me now.”

 

“I believe someone is coming. Or rather, I have to believe that, it's safer to prepare needlessly than to be caught out.” Blaine's arms hung limp at his sides, but his fingers clenched tightly into fists that made his knuckles go white. “Everything else, I don't know. You, no matter what you say, _I don't know you._ ”

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Blaine stared at his lover, the man he'd thought had been heaven sent but instead was tailor-made to destroy his life.

 

Too large a part of him still wanted to reach out to Florian –  _Kurt_ , he reminded himself – and hold him close. Abject misery was written all over the other man's face despite his effort to stand strong. It was an emotion Blaine wanted to erase. Worse was what he could see in the other man's eyes.

 

He'd all but given up.

 

This more than anything convinced Blaine that everything Kurt said was the truth. That he hadn't wanted to do it, that he'd been coerced into it through horrific means. If Blaine's own father were still alive, wouldn't he do anything to keep him safe? Or Alice? Or Amelia?

 

But the betrayal still hurt. That he'd had to find out via  _Thad_ still hurt. The breakdown of trust between he and Kurt now was so huge, too huge, maybe.

 

The treasonous aspect of it all was blood chilling as well. He'd been harboring a York-allied saboteur in his home for months while he trotted Lancastrian nobles in and out to discuss overthrowing the king. Had anyone found out about Florian – no,  _Kurt_ \- they could have both been executed. Even if Blaine didn't know of the man's mission and intentions, he still gave refuge to someone who had been instructed to bring their campaign down. He would be seen as ineffective, unable to prevent even an ill-trained and badly informed infiltrator to enter his home. That would not be acceptable to the greater Lancastrian nobles. Blaine would be held up as an example.

 

Not to mention the small matter of an impending invasion of his home, while the Earl of Crawford's daughter was under his roof. Putting Amelia in potential danger was much too close to a transgression that Blaine could not forgive. Even if the object of the invasion had been Blaine and Blaine alone, how could he trust that they would have never touched Amelia? Anyone who knew anything about him knew about Amelia, and she was easily recognizable. She would come out to see what the commotion was about, and anyone could kidnap her then. Or worse.

 

It made his blood run cold and banished the wisps of compassion that had begun to wind their way through his fury. This man had compromised the promise Blaine had made to James Freville that he would keep his daughter safe. Anger burned in his stomach all over again and he had to return to pacing the room, lest he settle his fingers around that slender throat and begin squeezing.

 

“Three nights, you say,” he bit out, going back to the subject that didn't immediately feel as if it would flay him raw. “They'll be here in three nights? How did they expect to gain entrance?”

 

“I don't know,” replied Kurt in a listless tone. “I told you, I keep telling you, I was given my orders and sent on my way. I wasn't deemed important enough to know more than that, and I was too afraid for my father to push.”

 

“Important enough to destroy my life, but not important enough to know why. Whoever sent you on this mission must not have had a very high opinion of you.” _Or of me_ , Blaine thought bitterly. To send someone to ruin his life, but only give that person bits and dribbles of information? That was as insulting as it was infuriating that they'd done it at all.

 

Kurt snorted. “That would be rather the understatement. Jesse and I loathe each other. We always have.”

 

“Why you, then?” Blaine couldn't help but ask. Despite his anger, he was genuinely curious. “Why trust someone you hate with a job this important?”

 

“I told you. My father. Who needs trust when you can merely threaten the existence of my only living parent? Wouldn't you do anything to protect your father, were he still alive?”

 

And since he'd just asked himself the same question, Blaine was forced to acquiesce. Not with any good grace, however, as it only served to remind him of the danger to Alice and Amelia. “Did you ever stop to think,” he began with sharpness, deciding to shift the subject, “of the fact that you put my aunt and my dearest friend in harm's way?”

 

He was gratified to see a shamefaced expression slip along Kurt's countenance, his high cheekbones washing over in deep red. “Every minute of every day, once I'd become acquainted with them. You have to know that I would never want to cause them harm.”

 

“And yet that seems to have given you little to no pause.” Blaine almost relished giving outlet to this particular fury. “Never mind the danger and ruination to myself, you might have gotten them killed!”

 

“I'm sorry!” Kurt was on his feet again, hands reaching out, pleading, begging for understanding that Blaine could not bring himself to give. “I've despaired for weeks, trying to find a way out of this! I've lied to St. James as best I could, but Blaine, I'm just not as fiendishly clever as he is. I wanted to save everyone...I've lost everything.”

 

Again, the defeat in Kurt's very posture gave Blaine pause. He knew his rage was a very long way from cooling, but it did ebb slightly at the sight of his lover, who now resembled nothing so much as a fallen angel facing the fires of hell for the first time.

 

He was so beautiful, and so dangerous without even knowing it. Blaine had no idea what to do now. He couldn't bear to look upon Kurt for another moment, couldn't handle the emotional pendulum swing of anger to pity with stops along the way to acknowledge the maddening desire he still felt. It was making him nauseous.

 

Yet there was no way he could just turn the man out. Not only because of the danger of letting an admitted saboteur run free, but because even now, even after all of this, Blaine wanted to protect him. The man who had threatened Kurt's father and sent him into a perilous mission with only scant information was not far away at all, would in fact be here at Dalton in a matter of days. To force Kurt out now would be to all but hand him into this Jesse St. James' hands. It would be tantamount to a death sentence, and no matter how furious Blaine was, he would not do that to Kurt. He didn't even want to let him face the man when he arrived for their ruination.

 

But he did have to do something.

 

It came to him all at once.

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~

 

Kurt jumped, startled as Blaine reached out and seized his elbow. His grip was tight, a little painful – he knew it would leave bruises on the morrow. A yelp escaped Kurt's lips as the other man began to drag him out of his room and down the corridors. “What are you doing! Where are you taking me?”

 

“The prison tower.” Blaine's voice was lined with gravel, his gaze trained firmly on anything but Kurt. “I need to think, you're distracting, but I can't risk having you run away.”

 

“I wouldn't!” He tried to twist out of Blaine's grasp, but his efforts led to nothing. “I _have_ to stay here! Weren't you listening? He'll be here in three days time! You have to let me help you kill him!”

 

“I don't _have_ to do anything!” Blaine turned his head to look directly at Kurt, all pain and rage and trouble. “Even what I do now is a favor to you!” Picking up his pace, he forced Kurt almost into a run through the corridors of the manor house.

 

“Not being able to help and defend you isn't a favor to me!”

 

Blaine stopped and whirled on Kurt, shifting to grab him by both shoulders again. “You do not get to choose what favors I grant to you, Kurt!” The words emerged with excruciating slowness from between gritted teeth. “That you have the audacity to suggest that you could help and defend me after betraying my trust in this way – or that you would even think that I'd want you to risk your life at all...” Conflict was clear in his voice, yet his eyes were still resolute. “This is the best solution.”

 

“Let me prove myself, let me do this - ”

 

“No.” Blaine returned to dragging Kurt behind him, arriving too soon at the entrance to the prison tower that jutted a full story above the second floor of Dalton House. He yanked the door open and began to shove Kurt ahead of him, up the steep spiraling staircase. “Accept what I'm giving you, Kurt, for it will allow you to live.”

 

Kurt felt the world going fuzzy around the edges. “Allow me to live?”

 

“I could take you to Lord Crawford, you see.” Blaine's mouth thinned into a tight line. “Even if I told him a mere fraction of what you told me, he'd have you instantly executed as a York spy. You've seen too much, even if you don't know what it meant. You know something is being planned. He could never let you live, knowing who sent you.”

 

“Then do it!” He tried again to pull himself free, but Blaine continued the inexorable push up the stairs. “If you're not going to let me defend you - I've failed you and my father both, I've endangered Amelia and the Baroness, have done with it and let him kill me!”

 

They arrived at the top floor of the tower, Blaine keeping his grip tight on Kurt right up until he'd managed to unlock the door of the single cell there. With a powerful shove, he sent Kurt staggering inside. “I can't do it, Kurt. God help me, but I cannot.” He ducked his head down and shut the cell with a noisy clang, re-locking it and pocketing the key.

 

“Why, Blaine? For God's sake, why?”

 

When Blaine let his gaze fall directly upon Kurt this time, it was to reveal eyes gone suddenly dull with betrayal and despair. “Because...Heaven help me, Kurt Hummel, but I love you. I love you even now, no matter who you are or what you've done. And just at this moment, I hate myself for it.”

 

With that, he turned and departed, leaving Kurt to stand in the middle of his cell and listen to his lover's footsteps recede slow and heavy into the distance. One foot after the other, he heard trudging down the stairs until the tower door opened and shut behind Blaine. 

 

Now there was left only silence to fill Kurt's ears.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to MotherGoddamn, who politely let me know that Blaine's not a pushover and would be more pissed at all this than I originally had him being. Love to everyone who wanted to kill me after the previous chapter but did not.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt is made to explain all to a too-curious Amelia just before everything really begins to careen down the path to disaster.

Somehow, Kurt wasn't surprised when Amelia found him two nights later. 

 

Appearing in the tower with a pitcher of water and a clean cloth in her hands, she resembled nothing so much as an angel to Kurt, whose fastidious nature was offended by having gone two days without a wash of any sort. He accepted the cloth with gratitude and dampened it, wiping at his face and hands while she spoke. 

 

“Blaine tried to tell me that your stay in Oxford had run overlong,” she informed him rather matter-of-factly, pulling a pear and a handful of nuts from a pocket in her dress after he'd finished washing up. “Which I might have believed if I hadn't been out riding and caught a glimpse in the window of someone moving about up here.”

 

“So you decided to snoop,” Kurt guessed fondly, reaching between the bars to squeeze her hands before accepting the snack. “Thank you.”

 

“I prefer the term investigate,” was her prim reply as she plopped herself down onto the stone floor of the tower, tugging an apple for herself out of another pocket and biting into it. “Are you all right?”

 

“As I can be. You're the first person besides Blaine I've seen in two days, and the only one of the two who'll speak to me.” He tried not to show how much that hurt him. “You're a sight for sore eyes, really, and anything other than silence would be music to my ears...that it's you is the icing on the cake.” They exchanged smiles.

 

“So,” Amelia trilled in a casual manner that Kurt _knew_ was feigned to hide her raging curiosity, “you and Blaine have had a bit of a tiff?” As she nibbled at her fruit, she made her eyes go wide in a parody of innocence that would have been endearing had she not patently been fishing for information.

 

Kurt had pushed to sit up against the cell wall and now rolled his head to the side to stare at her. “A tiff? Amelia, does this - “ - he waved around to encompass the room - “ - not seem a bit of an extreme reaction for a _tiff_ ?”

 

A guilty smile crossed Amelia's face as she ducked her head and took another bite before answering. “I was simply trying to interject a bit of humor into what is quite clearly a grim situation...” The smile faded as she trailed off, stretching her hand out to touch his knee. “Florian, what have you done?” 

 

“Well, actually, that's an excellent place to start.” Kurt closed his eyes and rested his head back against the wall, deciding to just tell her everything. “My name...Amelia, my name isn't really Florian Renner.” He cracked one eye open just a slit so that he could gauge her reaction.

 

Apart from a slow blink and a widening of her eyes, the news didn't seem to faze Amelia much at all. “I see. All right. Who are you, then?” 

 

He marveled at her calm demeanor. “My true name is Kurt Hummel,” he replied, shutting both eyes tight again. “And I am a spy. Of a sort.” 

 

“Oh. That _would_ make Blaine angry.” Still, though, she didn't sound shocked or horrified, merely curious. It made him want desperately to know what she was thinking. “Oh, Florian. Well, Kurt, I suppose.” He could hear the frown in her voice. “That's going to take getting used to...Kurt, this is really very not good.”

 

“Believe me, Amelia. I am quite aware.” He rubbed absently at the sore knots in his shoulders where Blaine had grabbed for him in his agitation. “It is actually exceedingly bad.”

 

“Are you hurt? Did Blaine hurt you? I can't believe he would have...” Conflict had entered her voice, worry over Kurt warring with everything she knew through her lifelong friendship with Blaine. Kurt wished he could give her a hug to reassure her.

 

He was left only with words. Perhaps this time, perhaps with Amelia, he could make them count. “A bit. Physically, he didn't mean to. He was agitated, he grabbed me and you know that I bruise if you look at me funny...” Opening his eyes, Kurt pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them, feeling as though he were trying to keep himself from falling to pieces. “And emotionally, I did rather deserve it.” He pillowed his cheek on his knee and opened his eyes to see Amelia sitting similarly, her gaze serious and sad.

 

“Why, then? Why did you do it?”

 

He sighed. “I had no choice. They threatened my father's life. I'd do anything to save him.” 

 

“I see.” She bit her lip and pinched a fold of velvet skirt between her fingers, rubbing it back and forth as she thought. “But...apart from that, it wasn't something you wanted to do, is it?”

 

“Of course it wasn't” He hated that his voice ratcheted and cracked with emotion, but couldn't help it. “I never, ever did. Even before I met him, _long_ before I fell in love with him, I didn't want to go through with this mission.”

 

Amelia recoiled only a little in the face of his vehemence. Shaking her head to resettle herself, she went on. “And...what was your mission?” She spoke with reluctance, as if she almost didn't wish to know, but he knew how she felt she _had_ to. 

 

“Er. Well.” On the one hand, this was Amelia. On the other, this was Lady Amelia Freville, daughter of the Earl of Crawford. How to explain? “Do you remember how you told me that you'd caught Blaine with Thad?”

 

“Yes?” She tilted her head, not understanding where he was going.

 

“I, ah, I was essentially tasked with recreating that. Except with me. And we were to be caught by my liege-lord's men.”

 

She gasped. “No. Not that! Fl – Kurt, you could have ruined his life!” 

 

“That did seem to be the plan.” He shifted so that he didn't have to see her reproachful stare. “Apparently, he's important to the people who sent me here.”

 

“How could you? Blaine is the best person I know – how could you do this to him?” Now Kurt heard sobs clogging Amelia's throat, and he passed the washing cloth back to her through the bars without looking up to see her tears.

 

“They had my father. I had no choice.” He pressed his forehead down into his knees. “They knew they could threaten my life and I wouldn't care – let them kill me – but my father is all I have left. I had to try.”

 

No response came for a long time, so the only sound Kurt heard was her sniffling. When she finally spoke, she was so heartbroken that he almost sent her away. 

 

“It's all so horrible,” she choked out, unable to stop weeping. “What they've done to you, what they made you do to Blaine.”

 

That was unexpected. It made him lift his head in surprise. “What they've done to me? What does that matter? Don't you hate me for what I tried to do to Blaine?” 

 

“Of course I don't!” She dabbed at her tearstreaked cheeks and passed the cloth back to him. “You said yourself that you were coerced into it. And by the most horrible means! Your poor father!”

 

“You...you believe me? You can just believe me, just like that?” It was almost too much. He'd lost Blaine – was it even remotely possible that he could at least still have Amelia's good regard? If he had to be locked up here forever, was there potential to know that there was at least one single thing that he hadn't entirely ruined?

 

“I _know_ you, Flor – Kurt. You wouldn't hurt anyone unless you were defending yourself or someone you loved. So, yes, I can just believe you, just like that.” She pushed her hand forward to grab his again. “There is nothing I can do for you besides to believe you, but at least I can do that much.”

 

He pulled her hand up to press it against his cheek. “Thank you. It's more than I dared hope for, certainly more than I deserve. Oh, Amelia.” Unable to help himself, Kurt heaved another gusty, shuddering sigh. “I have no right to so much as wish for Blaine's forgiveness and understanding, but how it does hurt nonetheless.” 

 

“I know.” She scooted closer, until her knees pushed up against the bars of the cell. “He...I think...” She paused, troubled, seeming unsure as to how much she should say.

 

“What? What do you think, Amelia?” He scrambled to kneeling, clutching at the bars that separated them and feeling his eyes go wide with desperation. “Say it, please.”

 

“I don't want to give you false hope.” Her voice faltered in the face of his urgency. Kurt forced himself to release his grip on the cell and he reached for her, pleading.

 

“Please, Amelia. Even a false hope is better than to have no hope at all.”

 

She bit down on her lip, teeth denting the cushion of it and worrying at it slightly. “Blaine never stays  _unreasonably_ angry for long,” she whispered. “He will remain angry, of course, for some time, but not  _unreasonably_ so. You know of course that he is justified in that, Kurt.”

 

He nodded. “Of course.” 

 

“But he loves you. Anyone can see it. This would not have hurt him so badly if he did not.”

 

Yet somehow this wasn't the comfort she obviously thought it would be, and Kurt knew why. “It isn't simply about himself though, Amelia.” He slumped back onto his heels, but didn't release her hands. “I've endangered you and the Baroness, everyone here. That has what has made him most angry, above all else. With excellent reason.” 

 

“Blaine is fierce about those he loves, it's true,” Amelia agreed, nodding until her golden curls bobbed in all directions. “But you are counted among those, even now, I'm sure. He loves so deeply, Kurt, it cannot be easily uprooted. Given time, you could perhaps prove to him - ”

 

“There is nothing for him to prove.” Blaine's voice burned dark and low behind Amelia, making both she and Kurt look up in surprise. “I'd ask why you are here, Amelia, but you always were too keen to poke your nose in where it does not belong.”

 

The harshness in his tone made Amelia flinch and Kurt squeeze her hands tighter. “You may be as rude as you like with me, but not her, Blaine. Stop it.” 

 

The Viscount – for that was indeed who was in the room with them now, not loving, generous Blaine – looked as if he wanted to take Kurt's head off. He managed to restrain himself to a sharp nod, and his face relaxed a bit. “Of course. I'm so sorry, Amelia. This is, however, truly no place for you and these affairs are none of your concern.” Striding over, he reached down to offer her a hand up. “Come, pretty. It's quite late.” 

 

She only knelt up against the cell, as close as she could manage to get to Kurt. “Only if you promise to hear him out, Blaine.” 

 

“Amelia - ” The two men spoke in unison, Kurt in concern and Blaine in exasperation. They exchanged frowns before Kurt shrugged at Blaine to indicate that he should go on. The Viscount returned the gesture with a tight smile.

 

“I am here, aren't I?” He tried to put more light into his tone, but Amelia remained unconvinced and did not budge. “Amelia, please. I truly do need to speak to him, and I cannot with you here.”

 

“But do you promise?” Her fingers, wrapped tightly as they were around the iron bars, were white knuckled. “You must! And don't even think to try and pull me away. I'll scream.” She looked back to Kurt, rushing to explain. “No one else seems to know that you're up here. If I scream, they'll all come to see what the fuss is and Blaine will have to explain.” Glancing back over her shoulder, Amelia beamed an over-sweet smile at her oldest friend. “Isn't that right, Blaine?”

 

They could hear his teeth grinding in his frustration. “Fine,” he finally barked out. “Fine, Amelia, I promise. Now will you please go?” 

 

“Yes.” With one last hand clasp, she bade Kurt farewell and bounced up to her feet. As she passed Blaine, she swatted him on the arm. “Be nice,” she hissed, and flounced out. Blaine watched her go before turning back to face Kurt. The expression on his face did not lead Kurt to believe he had any interest in hearing him out at all, promise or no. He felt his eyebrow quirk up.

 

“Tell me you're not actually going to break a promise you made to _Amelia_?”

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

The audacity of this man saying anything about Amelia only fanned the flames of Blaine's anger even as he knew it was unfair. “As if you have any room to pass moral or ethical judgment on me, Kurt. And don't speak of her, you've no right, you endangered her life -” 

 

Kurt leaped up and looked as if he dearly wished he could smack Blaine upside the head. “And well do you know that I've regretted it every damn day, Blaine. I'm not going to keep repeating myself. Stop being -” 

 

“Stop being what? Protective of my family? Feeling betrayed by your actions? Worrying about how close you came to _destroying my life_?” His voice rose to just below a shout. He was having to struggle to keep it at that level, not wanting anyone to come investigating any commotion.

 

In the cell, Kurt wrapped his arms around himself and turned his back on Blaine. “Never mind.” And to Blaine's surprise, he began stripping off his shirt. 

 

“What are you doing?” he blurted, looking anywhere but at that finely muscled back, that pale skin with the bruises of his fingers dappled across the shoulders – he winced at the memory of causing them – at the way Kurt's slender waist tapered into his deep gray hose. Rather abruptly, he completely lost his train of thought - what in the _world_ was Kurt doing?

 

“I'm washing up, Blaine. I couldn't really do this while Amelia was here, and I can't stand going without cleaning myself for another second.” Kurt's voice was loaded with irritation as he tossed the shirt onto the thin cot in his cell. “She brought me water, something you didn't think to do, so I'm going to take advantage of it. If I have to deal with you deliberately ignoring all that I've told you, I'm at least going to do it clean.”

 

“Am I supposed to apologize for not bringing water?” Blaine retorted in amazement. “You're my prisoner. I told you that you don't get to choose what favors I grant you.”

 

“But you are not, despite what I called you the other day, actually a jackass,” Kurt snapped back. “You're doing an excellent job of acting like one though...it doesn't matter. Turn your back if it embarrasses you.”

 

“It doesn't – oh, fine.” Blaine turned around, only to turn back at the sound of a muffled oath. “What?”

 

“This pitcher. It's just out of reach. Damn it.” Kurt was kneeling on the ground, reaching through the cell bars towards the pitcher that Amelia had left behind, his wiggling fingers falling just short. He sighed and sat back. “Well, so much for that. Fine. Go ahead, you were saying?”

 

“Do you _ever_ ask anyone for help?” Exasperated, Blaine strode over and picked up the pitcher, thrusting it close enough to the bars so that Kurt could dip his cloth into it. “You're welcome, by the by.”

 

Kurt's eyes, a stormy gray-green with anger in the weak candlelight in the cell, narrowed as he wet the cloth and pulled back to begin running it across his chest. “Thank you.” He stepped back to continue his ablutions. “Well? You needed to speak to me?” 

 

Blaine found himself mesmerized by the beads of water running down Kurt's chest, dribbling down to dampen the waist of his hose in dots of darker gray. He was momentarily seized by the urge to fling the entire contents of the pitcher through the bars and watch as the wet wool clung to every line of every muscle of Kurt's legs, outlining the shape of his cock and – _Stop it_ , he told himself, forcing his eyes up to meet Kurt's. One look told him that the other man knew full well where his thoughts had been wandering, a tiny smirk quirking up the corner of his mouth. 

 

“See something you like, Blaine?” But rather than the playful tone that should have delivered the line, Kurt's voice was bitter and distant, touched with frost and fire alike. It bit at Blaine's conscience and heart with the sharpness of a snake's fangs. To hide his embarrassment and anger, Blaine turned away to make a production of placing the pitcher back on the floor.

 

In his moments of calm, Blaine knew well that Kurt had been used for his sinister purpose. Over the last two days, he had at last read all of the letters and it was clear that the other man had been most unwilling to cooperate, even his action in retaining the letters as evidence being an act of defiance against the selfish men who had threatened his father and forced him to act against his nature. In fact it was the letter retention itself, rather than the contents of them, that told Blaine more than anything of Kurt's intentions. He had clearly hoped to prove his relative innocence if caught or if he found the strength to reveal himself. 

 

And of course, Blaine knew well, Kurt would have never, ever wanted to bring harm to Amelia. 

 

_But he so nearly had_ , his protective heart seethed, and it was this coupled with how close he'd come to disrupting the Lancastrian efforts to take the throne that had kept the fires of Blaine's anger burning. The conflicts between his temper and his desperate love for Kurt had kept him awake ever since he'd imprisoned the man, the madness of all of it making him sometimes feel as if he were drowning.

 

“Blaine...” The dry, plaintive whisper, all trace of arrogance gone now, snapped Blaine out of the looping chaos of his thoughts and drained away his ire. He leaned forward, straining to hear. “Blaine, what will you do with me?”

 

Since he knew in his heart that Kurt had been nothing but honest with him since everything had blown up, Blaine could only return that honesty now. “I don't know.” He met Kurt's heartbreakingly sorrowful gaze head on, taking a deep breath. “Not yet.”

 

Kurt nodded, biting at his lip. “You can't keep me here forever.”

 

“But I have to know where you are for the next several months,” Blaine admitted. “You must see that, even if you don't know entirely why you are here.”

 

Alarm widened Kurt's eyes, streaked through his voice and cracked it as he spoke. “You would hold me in this cell for  _months_ ?” Tension rolled off of Kurt in waves, filled the tower thick enough to lay its acrid taste on Blaine's tongue. He hated himself for causing it.

 

“What would you have me do? I cannot take you to Crawford. I don't entirely trust you not to run back to Huntingdon, even if only to try and save your father – if they catch you...” He shook his head and swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. There was something Kurt did not yet know, that Blaine dreaded to tell him. “Yet I cannot have you disappearing and...Kurt, please. As much as anything else, I do this for your own safety. 

 

“I can take care of my--”

 

Blaine spoke up and over the heated insistence, desperate to convey to Kurt how dire the situation had become. “Kurt, Noah Puckerman was killed in his bed the same night that I found out about all of this.”

 

At this, Kurt's knees appeared to buckle beneath him, and only flinging out his hands to grab at the iron bars of his prison kept him from collapsing completely to the ground. “Oh, my God.”

 

“That was how you and your St. James passed letters back and forth, wasn't it? Through Noah.” Blaine shook his head. “So simple, yet in hindsight so obvious, now. All of those letters to your father...”

 

“Those were real,” Kurt replied, his eyes fixed on his hands. “I sent a letter to St. James every time I sent one to my father.” He sucked in a breath. “Oh, Rachel, poor Rachel. Poor Noah.”

 

“Whoever did it didn't touch Rachel, so she and the baby are fine. She's staying with the town laundress at the moment, though I'm going to see that she gets safe passage back to her family in Portugal soon – she wants to be with them.” Everyone was trying to talk the pregnant woman out of the strenuous sea journey, but in her understandable hysteria – and general stubborn nature, Blaine thought but never once said aloud – she refused to listen. She wanted to be as far away from where she'd woken up in a pool of her husband's blood as possible, and he couldn't really blame her.

 

“Whoever did it – I know who did it,” Kurt snapped, uncharacteristic venom coloring his voice. “Now there's even more reason for you to let me have at St. James, Blaine! After all he's done, I owe him a painful death!”

 

His lover's destructive need to fling himself headlong into danger finally managed to unhinge Blaine. “Damn it, Kurt, why won't you listen to me? I will  _not_ take the chance of losing you at the hands of a madman!”

 

The unexpected words erupted out of him with a force so stunning that it wasn't until the echoes had died away that he realized he had bolted forward and seized Kurt's hands where they were wrapped around the cell bars.

 

They were touching for the first time in two days, tempers and emotions flagging high between them. And Kurt was standing there half naked, water still gleaming in damp spots here and there on his skin, dispelling all rational thought and leaving Blaine with an impossible decision: which did he want to do first, lick and suck at each spot and work his way down, or proceed directly to unlacing Kurt's hose? 

 

Or perhaps simply start with a kiss and go from there?

 

As if entranced, Blaine moved to yank the key to the cell out of his pocket, unlocking the cell to throw the door open and stride right up to Kurt, pushing him up against the wall. When Kurt gasped in surprise, Blaine took the opportunity to lean up and claim his mouth in a primal kiss.

 

One hand he clasped to the back of his lover's neck, the other reaching between them to palm Kurt's cock under the hose. When groans of pleasure tumbled out of Kurt's mouth at the erotic contact, Blaine greedily swallowed them down. He vaguely felt Kurt's hands grabbing at his arms, trying to pull him closer despite the physical impossibility of it.

 

He broke off the kiss to whisper hot into Kurt's ear. “I need you to know, Kurt, that you drive me completely mad.”

 

“The sentiment is mutual,” Kurt rasped, pulling back to reveal eyes with pupils so wide, only the smallest ring of the dark blue that signaled his desire was visible. He threaded both hands through Blaine's curls and dragged him forward to return the searing kiss with interest, biting down a little more sharply than usual, pulling Blaine's hair a little harder, urgency and a lurking sense of dominance waiting for its chance tasting of darkness in Blaine's mouth.

 

He suddenly felt as if this might get out of hand, the intensity between them sparking higher than it ever had before. Too, he felt that he welcomed it, that it was the only kind of release that could snap the tension that had been between them in these last days. When Kurt licked his way down to nip at Blaine's ear, pointed and lingering, he felt he was almost ready to burst.

 

So it was both surprise and gratitude that Blaine felt when Kurt whipped them around so that it was  _Blaine_ against the wall, and then with another twist he was flipped around to face it, his palms slapping into the stone to protect him from the impact.

 

“Do you ever,” Kurt growled into his ear, “feel the need to let someone else take the lead, Blaine?”

 

He turned his head to the side just enough for Kurt to see his smirk. “Are you offering?” 

 

In the next instant, any desire he had to continue his backtalk disappeared in a gasp when Kurt's fingers made their way up under his doublet and shirt, pushing the fabric up until he could pinch and twist Blaine's nipples with a new sharpness that shot straight to his groin.

 

“I was thinking,” came the low reply, “that I'd just go ahead and take it.”

 

Blaine felt his head roll back onto Kurt's shoulder as his lover made quick work of the fastenings on his doublet, discarding it and bringing his hands back to dispose of the shirt beneath with equal efficiency. He felt chilled for a moment, just a brief hitch in time until Kurt's chest pressed warm up against his back, deft hands unlacing his hose and thrusting in together to alternate firm squeezes around his cock. 

 

As the waves of pleasure broke over him, Blaine's knees felt as though they'd give way. Clutching blindly at the wall, the sound of metal on stone stirred a memory, an idea – he blinked away the fog of desire to see that they were up against the wall with the shackles for difficult prisoners. In a flash he was reaching for them, the heavy iron clanking as he wound their icy heft around his wrists and gripped tight to hold himself up.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Kurt breathed, backing away for a moment and leaving Blaine bereft. “I can't...I have to have you now, Blaine – if you could see -”

 

“But I didn't bring anything,” he groaned, resting his forehead against the stone.

 

A throaty chuckle made him glance back over his shoulder. Kurt was in the corner rummaging through his beltpouch. “You didn't take anything off of me when you locked me in here,” he replied, pulling a slender vial from the little bag. “And I've been carrying this around...”

 

Confusion made Blaine furrow his brow. “Whatever for? We've almost always been where we had access to what we needed...”

 

“Because I liked to take it out and sniff at it sometimes,” was the surprising response. “The scent of it...it reminds me of you.” The sweet aroma of almonds wafted to Blaine's nose as Kurt slipped the vial into his hand where it was wrapped around the chains. “A moment, if you will.”

 

He felt his hose lowered to his knees, and a rustling a moment later let him know that Kurt did the same. The vial was removed from his fingers. “I'm sorry, Blaine, I can't wait long enough to get your boots off,” he heard while warm, slick oil was rubbed into the cleft between his buttocks, relaxing and lubricating the entrance there. “I need you...”

 

“I want you to have me,” Blaine assured him, his voice only hitching slightly with need. His erection was pressed close to the cool stone wall, straining and already leaking with his desire. He couldn't keep back a gasp as Kurt's finger slipped inside of him, moving so gently against his inner walls. “Kurt...”

 

“Not much longer,” Kurt soothed, his own angelic tones rough around the edges. “Two, now.”

 

Another finger slid in, pulling up a whimper that felt like it had had to travel from his feet in order to make it out. It had been so long since he'd been on the receiving end of such attention, and he'd gotten so used to taking the lead role in bed with Kurt...he had almost forgotten the pleasure of the intrusion, the sweet slight pain and pressure of the stretch. 

 

A third oil-slick finger had him catching his lower lip between his teeth and groaning. “Kurt, please,  _now_ ,” he ground out, pushing back against his lover's hand, forcing the fingers deeper. “Now, now, I can't, I need...”

 

“I've got you,” came the assurance as Kurt's free hand slipped between his body and the wall to tug at his cock, slow, languid pulls that would have brought Blaine to his knees if the chains hadn't continued to hold him up. The rough iron was biting into his wrists, but he didn't care, the sting kept him just aware, just able to not lose himself completely into the haze of lust that threatened to engulf him with one of Kurt's hands on his cock and the other buried deep within him.

 

Even with that control, Blaine was nearly at his end when Kurt's hands came away and finally,  _finally_ he felt the head of Kurt's member pressing slow and warm at his entrance. Gripping the chains tight, Blaine raised himself up just a little before sinking back down, taking Kurt into himself a tiny, agonizing bit at a time.

 

“Eager, are we?” Kurt's laugh was smoky, his breath hot on the back of Blaine's neck. “Didn't I tell you I've got you, Blaine?”

 

“Please...”

 

Inch by inch, Kurt pressed his way inside of Blaine and then stood there, hands on Blaine's hips while he filled him to his limit and let him grow accustomed to the long-forgotten feeling.

 

A huffed breath finally let Blaine know that Kurt was almost as undone by their role-reversal as was he. “This is...”

 

“Amazing,” Blaine strangled out, his fingers tightening around the chains until they went cold from the blood restriction. “Kurt, _move_.”

 

“I don't want to,” Kurt groaned back. “I won't last, Blaine – the sight of you – the feel – I'm too close already.”

 

He lifted himself up by the chains again, just a bit, feeling Kurt slipping backwards within him - and then Blaine  _shoved_ back down onto Kurt's cock, an incoherent shout of satisfaction ripping out of him as he did. Behind him, Kurt groaned hard and dug his fingertips into Blaine's hips, bracing him in place while he began to thrust in and out, slow pulls out and sharp snaps of his pelvis.

 

The steady pace couldn't last long with the two of them so close, and Kurt's movements rapidly began taking on an arrhythmic quality, whines and moans spilling out of his mouth as he shoved harder. “Close -” he muttered, and Blaine could hear his teeth clenched together - “- so close, too close -”

 

Blaine sunk his teeth into his own arm to stifle his own sounds of pleasure, the guttural low growls threatening to become shouts that would attract too much attention. Even so, when Kurt reached back around with his slippery fingers to begin stroking Blaine's erection to climax, he had to let go and throw his head back, leaning again on Kurt's shoulder as his body was rocked by his lover's thrusts, unable to keep back a single long cry of release as he went over, his seed bursting from his cock and painting the stone wall in sticky streaks.

 

As if the strangled howl had been a signal, Kurt climaxed then, the heat of his desire spilling high into Blaine in spurts, his own high pitched gasps of pleasure muffled in the skin of Blaine's sweat-slicked shoulder. 

 

The night's silence descended as they came down, Blaine sagging in his bonds to lean back against Kurt, to feel his slowing heartbeat against his back and hear his ragged breathing in his ear. The welcome sensations lulled him into a half-doze despite his shoulders suddenly beginning to protest their unusual position.

 

So limp with relief and languid pleasure was he that Blaine hardly noticed when Kurt gently withdrew, moving to fetch the cloth and pitcher of water so that he could clean the both of them up. It was with tenderness that Kurt resituated their hose and slowly, carefully, with kisses to each stiff finger and scraped wrist, extracted Blaine from the iron shackles wrapped around his arms. Blaine felt the love in every gesture and motion and knew then that any lingering doubts he had were gone. 

 

He would defend this man against anything, anyone. It was the only reward for a heart that anyone could see was nothing but fierce and loyal to those he loved, even as they hurt him and disbelieved him. How could Blaine do anything less?

 

“I love you, Blaine,” Kurt murmured, pressing his lips to Blaine's in a sweet kiss before helping him back into his shirt. Blaine allowed himself to be guided down to the floor of the cell, where Kurt curled up around him and wrapped them both in the blanket from the cot. “I love you so much, and I'm so sorry for everything that's happened.”

 

Blaine shook his head, snuggling closer and breathing in the smell of Kurt, of sweat and sex and sharp summer air coming through the window opening. “We'll figure it out, Kurt...we'll have to.” He lifted Kurt's hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of it before shifting up to take Kurt's lips in another one. “I love you, too, Kurt. I love you, and I'm sorry, and I forgive you. I will make sure everything is going to be all right for you and everyone else, even your father.”

 

“Well, isn't this sweet,” drawled a languid, syrupy voice laced with poison – a voice that didn't belong to Kurt, that was coming from the top of the stairway. Both men snapped their eyes open to gaze in shock at the sight of a tall, broad-shouldered man in unrelieved black velvet standing there, chestnut curls tumbling over his stone-cold blue eyes. 

 

A derisive smirk twisted his mouth up on one side as he watched them taking in the sight of him, watched the horror and realization dawn on them when he dragged Amelia out of the shadows behind him and pressed her back up against his chest, holding her still as he traced the tip of his dagger over the pale skin of her throat.

 

“Jesse St. James at your service,” he announced, knotting his gloved hand into a large clump of Amelia's curls, making her cry out in pain. “I found this pretty thing up much too late wandering the corridors and I thought I'd bring her up here to see if anyone knew where she belonged.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All seems to be at its most dire, but Blaine discovers that it can, in fact, get so very much worse.

Dressed all in white, golden hair tumbling and blue eyes wide with terror – Amelia was the very image of the sacrificial virgin facing her death.

 

It was a vision out of Blaine's worst nightmares. _But you were supposed to be safe here_ , he thought. _I promised to keep you safe..._

 

Amelia had thought she _was_ safe, obviously. She _should_ have been. It was the only reason she would ever have gone on her customary nighttime ramble. St. James had probably run into her as she was going to the music library. And therefore had come to pass exactly what Blaine had feared.

 

He should have warned her to stay abed. He'd intended to...tomorrow. Tomorrow, which is when St. James had been expected to come and fulfill his part of the plan he'd made with Kurt. The plan had obviously gone by the wayside, Blaine realized, but why?

 

And how had St. James gotten in? All of the major entrances were guarded. A stranger wouldn't have known about the lesser used ones. Blaine didn't like what that implied, not at all.

 

Kurt's voice interrupted his thoughts. “You filth, you're despicable, St. James,” he snarled, leaping to his feet. “Get your hands off of her.”

 

Jolted into action, Blaine decided to forgo words in favor of bolting out of the cell towards where St. James was holding Amelia – but not even a moment later he saw that it was futile. Blaine froze in place when the intruder pulled Amelia closer and pressed the tip of his dagger into her throat, not quite breaking skin but eliciting another terrified whimper from her that splintered Blaine's heart.

 

Amelia Freville had, over the course of their lives, kicked him in the shins, dumped filthy mop water over his head, slapped him in the face, and, on one very memorable occasion, had scored a direct hit on his testicles with a toy sword. She fought dirty. She only cried when she was angry or frustrated. Blaine had never once seen her afraid of anything at all.

 

Until now, when a madman held her at knifepoint and there was nothing he could do about it.

 

Blaine couldn't decide who he hated more in that moment: Jesse St. James...or himself.

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” St. James cautioned, shaking his head. “No closer, please, my good sir. I get nervous when people get too close, I don't think you'd like it if my hand slipped and made her pretty throat smile at you.”

 

“You are an utter bastard,” Blaine croaked, never taking his eyes off of Amelia's face. His mind raced to seek out any solution to what was looking increasingly to be an impossible dilemma. How to get Kurt and Amelia out alive – and himself, if possible? The first step absolutely required getting Amelia away from St. James, but she'd never been formally trained to fight. All of her spirit and ferocious strength of will was useless when immobilized and threatened with a deadly weapon.

 

“My parentage, I assure you, is completely above reproach,” replied St. James with a cheerfulness that bordered on the obscene. He tilted his head down so that he could whisper in Amelia's ear. “You really mustn't listen to them, sweetheart, men say the cruelest things when they're under great stress.”

 

Tears rolled down Amelia's cheeks. “Blaine,” she cried, plucking ineffectually at St. James' sleeve. “Kurt. I don't understand. What's happening? Who is this man?”

 

“It's all my fault, I'm so sorry, Amelia. So sorry.” Kurt inched his way out of the cell to stand next to Blaine. He stretched one arm out without thinking, only to snatch it back and seize Blaine's hand when St. James broke skin with his dagger and made Amelia shriek. “Stop it! Leave her alone! She's done nothing to you, it's us you want!”

 

“True.” Jesse shrugged. “And yet, she is the daughter of the Earl of Crawford, and she's clearly important to both of you so...” With casual cruelty, he began to trace patterns in the soft skin of Amelia's throat, lines and flowers etched in burning red on the snowy flesh. Blaine and Kurt could do nothing but watch, Blaine's mind still playing a macabre game of chess to try and strategize a way out for them all.

 

From the corner of his eye, Blaine saw Kurt lift his chin. “You're here a day early, St. James,” he bit out, cheeks red with anger. “And alone. I can't help but think that you had no intention of abiding by our bargain.”

 

“Give that man a prize.” Jesse moved the dagger away from Amelia's throat only long enough to point it at Kurt with a mocking grin. He returned to scratching his grotesque artwork into the girl's skin as he explained. “I always had a back up plan, you see. It wasn't ideal from a strategy standpoint, but for me personally, it was really the most satisfying option. And now it's the only option, since it's quite clear that our dear young Viscount knows who you are and, I presume, why you're here.” He licked tears from Amelia's cheek. “They've both used your name, your real one. You're a terrible spy, Kurt Hummel.”

 

“Shut up.” Blaine saw that Kurt's fists were clenched tight. “Shut up, and let her go, and I'll go with you.”

 

“Kurt, no!” Amelia's horrified squeal mingled with Blaine's yelp of anguish. He couldn't let Kurt just walk away with that insane fiend. Giving either of them up was _not_ in his plan at all. 

 

But Kurt simply kept his eyes on St. James. “You hate me, and I've completely failed at my task. I deserve to take the punishment. Not them. And not my father. Let's just go, Jesse, we'll go and this ends tonight.”

 

“Tempting, but not that simple, I'm afraid,” St. James sneered. “I mean, I did send you here to take Anderson over there out of play, after all. Just because you couldn't do as I said – or, rather, just because you did it and _lied to me about it_ – doesn't mean the purpose of the mission is moot.”

 

“I'm not important,” Blaine bluffed, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. He didn't know how much Huntingdon's people knew. If they thought he was important, all three of them could be doomed. “I'm a mere Viscount.”

 

St. James rolled his eyes. “Please. You're Henry Tudor's  _cousin_ . No matter how distant, the connection is there. We know he's up to something -”

 

“Henry and I don't even talk, I don't think we've ever met - ”

 

“- and you are much too clever to really think that I or the Earl of Huntingdon would accept that, don't you think, Anderson?” St. James' mocking, steady gaze pierced through Blaine, sending his mind scrabbling faster and faster down convoluted mental paths that seemed to offer no solutions at all. “Your familial connections are too close, your reputation for intelligence too well-founded for you to not be involved in whatever Henry's got up his sleeve.” He shifted and gestured at Kurt with his elbow. “Besides, your pet over there already told me that you had rather a lot of unusual visitors lately.”

 

Blaine gaped at Kurt, who was staring at St. James in confusion. “You said you weren't a spy.”

 

“I'm not,” Kurt whispered, turning to look at him. “Blaine, I'm not! Oh – no...”

 

“It's what tipped me off, really, that it was too late to go on with the plan as written,” St. James informed them. “I doubt Hummel knew that what he was telling me was of any importance. He simply wanted me to understand why he was having such a difficult time getting into your bed. Though of course, judging from the little tableau I walked in on...” He leered. “That was also a lie. Naughty, naughty.”

 

“I only wanted to save my father,” Kurt whispered.

 

“And the Viscount. And little Amelia, here,” Jesse laughed, mockery clear in his voice. “One job, Hummel, you had one job to do and your soft little heart wouldn't even let you do that. I have to say, though, it was actually impressive how long you managed to keep the information that you were _living_ here from me. I don't think Noah Puckerman was as impressed, however – given that he paid the price for your deception.”

 

“Noah?” Amelia's voice piped high and shaking, and neither Blaine nor Kurt could bring themselves to meet her tear-filled eyes. “What happened to Noah?”

 

“You didn't tell her?” St. James tsked. “Do I have to do _everything_?” He pulled his dagger away and held it up so that Amelia could see it. “My darling Lady Amelia, do you see this dagger here?”

 

She nodded, swallowing hard. “Y-yes...”

 

St. James smiled in a twisted parody of reassurance as he returned the dagger to its position against her throat. “Well! I'm afraid it had a bit of an accident – slipped, you see – and by the time it was all said and done, our dear Master Puckerman was quite, quite dead. Tragic.”

 

Blaine watched, helpless, as Amelia's eyes stretched to their widest limit before she began frantically sobbing and yanking fruitlessly at St. James' arm. “No, no, no, let me go, I don't want to – oh,  _Noah –_ Rachel, oh no, the baby.”

 

“Oh, Rachel's _fine_ ,” St. James tossed his head in nonchalance. “Much like our dear Kurt's father, she was never actually in danger. She was merely a tool to be used to ensure Puckerman's obedience. Pity that it didn't work.” He frowned. “It didn't work on either of you. I clearly underestimated Hummel's capacity for ruthlessness, what with him tossing aside his father's welfare and practically dropping little Amelia here into my hands.”

 

“Don't twist what I did,” Kurt snapped. “Everything that I've done to defy you was done so that I could try to save everyone else.”

 

“And how well has that worked out for you? The smart man would have followed my directions, discredited Dalton, and then no one would have had to be killed.” St. James sighed in feigned disappointment. “We wouldn't be here now if you'd just done what I said, Hummel. Poor Amelia Freville.” He smiled down into her terrified eyes. “Poor thing. You should be tucked up in bed in that pretty nightgown, shouldn't you? Not here in a drafty tower with a pack of lying, deceiving men and a knife at your little throat.”

 

Blaine couldn't stand it anymore. He wanted that man's hands off of Amelia, no matter what it took. “All right, if you want me, you can take me,” he spat. “If you think I'm that important, it should be a more than equal trade. Me for Amelia.” He'd work out a way to escape later. All that mattered was that Amelia and Kurt were safe, and that Blaine could get St. James far, far away from Dalton House.

 

He just had to get Amelia out of St. James' hands – away from that knife -

 

As St. James opened his mouth to reply, footsteps on the stairway snatched all of their attention away from the matter at hand. Everyone in their room seemed to hold their breath, standing as unmoving as statues. All eyes were trained on the entryway, the tension in the room stretched perilously thin.

 

When Thad appeared, looking dismayed, ill at ease, and surprised all at once, it rocked Blaine to his foundations. “Thad,” he breathed, not wanting to believe it, but knowing it made too much horrible sense. “Tell me you're not involved with this.”

 

Thad ignored him, addressing St. James instead. “You were taking too long – what are you doing? Let her go at once. Amelia's nothing to do with this.” His voice took on a sulky, petulant tone. “You're getting everything wrong. Do what you came for and be gone.”

 

“Oh, no,” St. James replied in delight. “No, according to my plans, everything is actually going about as perfectly as I could wish! I only have one problem, really.” He twitched his mouth into a rueful moue. “I can't decide what to do next.”

 

Kurt appeared to unfreeze, his breath rushing out in a horrified gasp. “This isn't happening,” he blurted. “You can't be serious, Thad – you're working with _Jesse_?”

 

“ _For_ me, really,” corrected St. James. “I might have let him think it was an equal partnership, though.”

 

Blaine felt an almost overwhelming urge to break Thad's neck. “I don't believe you, Thad,” he bit out, catching his old friend's attention. “You actually threw your lot in with this jackass? Did you let him into our _home_? What were you thinking?”

 

“Do tell them, Thad. I can't _wait_ to see the expressions on their faces.” Glee that was wholly inappropriate to the horrible situation was all over Jesse's face and in the manic energy that all but crackled off of him. “This is a really good story. I think you'll like it.”

 

Thad withered under the fierce glares he was receiving from both Kurt and Blaine, wilted completely under Amelia's frightened, confused gaze. “Blaine, I...” He gulped down a breath. “I was doing this for us.”

 

Blaine felt his eyes pop in astonishment. “In what possible way could getting Amelia held hostage be for _us_?” He'd known Thad was jealous but – was this why he'd left the letters in Blaine's room? He'd had been a fool to think that Thad's motives had been purely altruistic, he knew that now.

 

At the time he'd merely wanted to give an old friend the benefit of the doubt. Blaine wanted to laugh at how the stranger sent to ruin him had ended up wanting only to save him, while the man who was supposed to be his friend was on the verge of destroying it all anyway. It was just such a  _ farce. _

 

A very deadly one.

 

Thad gulped down a breath and tried to explain. “Amelia was never supposed to be involved! It's not like that, Blaine - ”

 

“Why don't you tell me what it's like, then?” Blaine bellowed when his fragile control gave way, only concern for Amelia keeping him from lunging at his former lover and murdering him on the spot. “Tell me why you even thought there _was_ an us, Thad? W e've been over this. There is no us! There hasn't been in years!”

 

“Ooh, he didn't tell me that,” Jesse chimed in. “He made it sound recent! This is getting better by the moment.”

 

“Shut your mouth, Jesse,” Kurt snapped, earning a pout of mock hurt from his enemy.

 

Blaine ignored them, keeping his eyes on Thad, trying to make any of it make sense. “Thad, why?” he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper from a throat stripped raw with the force of his fury. “You don't love me. Until recently you hadn't made any mention of what was between us in years. And you ended it! Why have I had to keep reminding you of this?”

 

“I just ended it before you could,” Thad retorted in a sullen mumble. “That's all. I thought if I cut you loose before you rejected me, it would hurt less.”

 

“But you know why we had to end,” Blaine persisted, wondering why they'd had this conversation so often as of late, wondering why it never seemed to sink in. “You've always known. So why this? Why now?” He had to know, couldn't help but push for it. It was one thing for Kurt to have been coerced into what he'd done, but Thad had clearly _chosen_ to do this, and Blaine wanted to know why...

 

Thad directed a glare at Kurt that was full of such venom that Blaine wondered that his lover did not drop dead under the onslaught of it. “You ask me this when you stand there an oathbreaker, holding the hand of the lover you swore you'd never take?” He extended a hand at Kurt, and Blaine could see how it shook with the force of his rage. “I...I...”

 

The tiny room was charged with the crackling energy of a lightning storm as Thad's temper exploded, frightening everyone, even the seemingly unshakable Jesse St. James, who had been observing the proceedings with mocking amusement up to that point. He pushed himself further into the room, back against the wall and his dagger still poised on Amelia's throat. Kurt and Blaine pressed together tightly, each trying to support the other – which seemed to only serve to make Thad more impossibly furious.

 

“I turned my back on _everything_ for you, Blaine!” he roared, face contorted so far away from recognizable that Blaine trembled to see it. Gone was his amiable, slightly superior and gently mocking friend, gone was the playful former lover. All that was left was incalculable rage. _“Everything_ , and you never once let it cross your mind!”

 

Blaine tried to push back against the ferocity. “What are you  _talking_ about?”

 

“My hands, my heart, pledged to God's service – I had forsaken that for you! Barred from the gates of Heaven for all eternity – for you! All that I ever am, was, or had been I gave up for you and you acted as if our time together were nothing more than a lark, like rubbish to be discarded!”

 

“Thad, no, I never - ” But he couldn't get anything more out before Thad's furious tirade raged on.

 

“Then you swore that never again would you lie with another – yet how easily was your oath discarded when _he_ came along!” Eyes that seemed lit by the fires of hell moved from Kurt back to Blaine, demanding understanding. “If you wanted someone, Blaine, if you had to break the vow you swore, why could it not have been with me? Why did I matter so little after all that I gave up?”

 

Like a draining tub, Thad's anger ran out then, leaving him to look broken and desperate as he stood in the entryway. His very stance seemed to beg forgiveness and acceptance.

 

But Blaine's skin felt flayed in the wake of Thad's fury, raw and bleeding. “I never thought – you never said – but how is it that I never knew?” he asked in a whisper, watching him. “You always spoke of the Church when we were young. I should have realized when you stopped talking about it when we ended things...I never thought.”

 

“You never do,” Thad agreed with an angry sneer. “You are unobservant at the most inconvenient times, Blaine. You always have been.”

 

He closed his eyes at the direct hit, unable to refute it. “But then why did you let it fester for so long?And what did you hope to accomplish by aligning yourself with this madman?” He gestured to St. James, who pretended to look put out by the slur.

 

“I thought if I could just have _him_ \- ” Thad pointed at Kurt, “ - taken away, that you'd come back to me and it would all matter again...so I followed him when he went to meet Jesse...” He trailed off, seeming to shrink back into himself when Kurt growled in wordless fury.

 

“You were going to have me _kidnapped_?” Kurt stepped forward, his voice coming in a hiss. “So, what, you went through my things, read my letters, _followed me_ , and then allied yourself with my worst enemy all because you were jealous of me?”

 

“It's more than that - ” Thad began, his anger beginning to spark again. But Kurt cut him off.

 

“I don't care! Whatever motivated you, look what you've done! Look at Amelia! This is _your_ fault!”

 

Thad hurled himself at Kurt. “None of it would have ever happened if you had never come here!” Tackling Kurt to the ground, the deranged man seemed hell-bent on choking him to death. Kurt, however, refused to go down without a fight, and managed to bring one knee up into a crucially soft area of Thad's anatomy, causing a strangled howl to chill the room.

 

“Stop it!” Blaine forced himself into the middle of the struggling pair, grabbing Thad and shoving him into the cell as he moaned, flailing weakly. “There is too much at stake here!” He swung the cell door shut, twisting the key in the lock and thanking God that his mindless passion had led him to forget it there earlier.

 

“Indeed,” St. James drawled from his corner, recalling their attention the matter most important. A twitch of his hand and Amelia shrieked again, a fresh puncture wound leaking blood down to stain the white lace and linen of her nightgown. Jesse simply looked bored at all of it. “Back to the issue at hand, I think.”

 

Blaine's eyes homed in on the blood staining Amelia's skin and gown, locking his gaze there and almost closing his throat in his anguish. “My offer still stands,” he croaked out, heavy with guilt and resignation. “I surrender. Let her go, and take me.”

 

“Blaine, no,” Amelia gasped, echoed a split second later by Thad and then Kurt, who had reached out to clutch at Blaine's fingers again. But Blaine only shook his hand free and took one step, then another forward, watching St. James so carefully. 

 

His dagger was so close to the deep blue vein that ribboned up Amelia's throat.

 

“Your liege wants me out of the way because of the threat he perceives me to be to Richard's throne.” He couldn't make the words come out in more than a monotone, but he was pleased at how steady he managed to keep his voice. “You may accomplish that this night by taking me to Huntingdon. Or killing me, I don't care.” He ignored the cries of dismay from his friend and his lover. “My only conditions are that you release Amelia and leave Kurt and his father alone.”

 

St. James looked skeptical. “Just that? Really?”

 

“Only those things,” Blaine confirmed. This was his last resort, but it was the only way out he could see. He'd planned for it, though, over the last two days. 

 

Just in case something went wrong – which it had done, had gone so horribly wrong – he had made all ready. In the event of Blaine's disappearance, letters were set to be given to Trent, Nick and Jeff so that they would together be able to take over his role in the Lancastrian rebellion. No matter what happened to him, the attempt to win the throne would go on. He'd seen to that.

 

Blaine refused to see his life taken from him for nothing. He'd prefer not to see his life taken at all, would fight with his last strength to keep it from being stolen from him. But if the worst were to happen – he was ready. So long as what he did saved Amelia and Kurt, he was prepared. England would still have a fighting chance.

 

 _For love, for honor, for God and country,_ he thought, swallowing hard before lifting his chin high and standing tall. In the cell behind him, Thad had dropped to his knees and was murmuring prayers.

 

Kurt and Amelia simply looked horrified.

 

“You'll come with me to Raglan Castle if I release Amelia Freville and the Hummels. Put yourself in Yorkist hands? Knowing what that must inevitably mean?” St. James pressed again for confirmation.

 

“I give you my word, knowing what I have pledged and all that it entails,” Blaine replied, desperately trying to ignore Amelia's frantic sobbing, Thad's whispered prayers and Kurt's pleas in his ear.

 

St. James pretended to consider this for a moment before finally removing his dagger from Amelia's neck. The slight girl sagged almost to the ground in her relief, held up only by the grip he still had under her arm. “Now, now dear,” he chided, hoisting her upright. “Stand up straight and bid our dear Viscount Dalton farewell.”

 

“Blaine,” was all she could get out, reaching her hands forward for him. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and taking two steps resolutely forward, not daring to turn and see the agony on Kurt's face. Seeing it on Amelia's had been awful enough.

 

He tried not to think about the fact that this might be the last chance he got to see the face of the man he loved, and he was refusing it. He would do his best to ensure that he got another chance.

 

When he opened his eyes again, it was to see St. James escorting Amelia to the top of the stairs. “Turn around, my sweet, turn and wave goodbye to your friend.”

 

She turned, her blue eyes streaming tears, raising her hand in a reluctant wave -

 

\- and St. James, who had never released his grip on her arm, chose that moment to hurl Amelia down the steep, spiraling staircase, where only one scream ripped from her throat before it was cut off, leaving the only sound to be the sickening echoes of a limp body impacting into unforgiving stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without MotherGoddamn, this would never have gotten published. She is the most amazing person in the history of ever. I am very fortunate to have her as my beta. Much love and gratitude to her, and to you also, my readers, who keep this going. We're almost done.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Difficult choices are made, terrible battles fought, and horrific losses suffered.

Amelia's abortive scream was still ringing in Kurt's ears when he mindlessly rushed at St. James and slammed him into the wall, wiping away the triumphant grin on the other man's face. “You had no right to do that – none – _none_ !” he screamed, his helplessness and useless words serving only to stoke the fires of his rage higher and higher. “She was nothing at all to do with you!”

 

Through the red haze of his fury, he dimly realized that Blaine had been right behind him and stood now with his arm across St. James' throat. “Why?” Blaine ground out, pressing down with his forearm and choking off his laughter. “For God's sake, why? I was coming with you! You got what you wanted!” 

 

“Killing...you...too easy,” St. James wheezed, a hint of his usual cockiness showing through his discomfort. He kicked out at Kurt's shins before continuing. “Destroying you...bigger...challenge.” Had he not been pinned to the wall by Blaine's arm, he might have doubled over when Kurt sunk a fist into his stomach. As it was, he still chuckled breathily. “You...next...Hummel.”

 

“Uncharacteristic of you to miscalculate so badly,” Kurt snarled. “Two against one, you'd have been better off throwing _me_ down the stairs, you wretched excuse for a human being.”

 

St. James actually rolled his eyes. “As if...” He coughed and stretched his neck in an effort to gain some freedom from Blaine's crushing arm. “As if...you'd let those odds...stand...” Still he smirked. “You...and your...ethics...” 

 

Kurt hated himself in that moment – when he faltered and knew St. James to be right. 

 

Blaine noticed the hesitation and reacted with dismay. “Kurt, don't listen to him.” He shoved up against his prisoner, pinning him more tightly to the wall. “Leave him alone.” 

 

“Chivalrous...of you,” croaked out St. James, turning a mocking glare on the Viscount. “Leaving...Lady Ame-”

 

“Do not speak her name,” Blaine growled, “You are not fit.”

 

“Nor...you...she could...still be...alive...alone...on the staircase...broken...” Now St. James laughed, in full defiance of his impossible position. “Not...gentlemanly...”

 

The emotional manipulation worked. A stricken Blaine relinquished his grip, stepping away in horror. “Amelia. My God.” 

 

“Don't...” But Kurt couldn't finish it, couldn't tell Blaine not to listen to Jesse, to not take the chance that Amelia might be crumpled on the stairs, hurt and crying. The urge to face St. James one on one was overwhelming, the Steward damnably correct in his assessment. Kurt would never accept an unbalanced defeat – though it was a fool's mission with, at best, a fifty percent chance of his own survival. “Blaine. Go.”

 

“Kurt. I.” Blaine stood, torn, desperate to see if Amelia was all right, but... “You? Alone with him?”

 

Kurt had never let go of his hold on St. James, moved now to pin both of the man's arms behind his back. “This ends tonight. One way or another.” 

 

“You're asking me to take this chance? The entire reason I locked you _in_ here was to keep you away from him.” Blaine kept his eyes steady on Kurt, ignoring St. James' exaggerated retching.

 

“She's waiting for you,” Kurt gritted out, fighting to keep his eyes locked with Blaine's when all he wanted to do was look away in shame at his manipulation. Blaine was so hurt already, would be more hurt when he had to face what was waiting for him on the stairs, but Kurt had to do this. He had to give a fair fight with his nemesis a reasonable chance. If he failed...well, at least he'd have done something to weaken the man so that Blaine could finish the job.

 

In the end, this was after all exactly what he'd been training for these last weeks. The entire reason he'd asked Blaine for fighting lessons. Here was his one and only chance to make them count. 

 

Kurt yanked at Jesse's arms, lifting his chin. “You must go. Go help her, Blaine, for God's sake if there's even the smallest chance she lives...” He blinked back tears at the thought of his lovely, sunny friend, to never again hear her lilting voice, her teasing, to never again feel her pointed little shoes bruising his shins. 

 

He did not believe for one moment that Amelia still lived, and hated fostering even the faintest of false hope's in Blaine's too-tormented heart. But he needed Blaine to go. He did not want Blaine to see what he was about to do – especially he did not want Blaine to see it if he happened to fail. Kurt swallowed, a painful lump burning down his throat and chest to settle heavy and sharp in his stomach. 

 

“Go, Blaine! Go!” he shouted, sure he was deafening St. James and caring not a whit. His heart felt as though it would rip in half from what he did to his lover – to deliberately manipulate him, then to possibly die. _I'm so sorry, Blaine. So sorry._ “Go now while still there may be breath in her body, for God's sake! Go!”

 

With a last long, tormented gaze at Kurt, Blaine whirled and fled down the stairs, leaving the Steward and the stableman all but alone in the tower. Kurt hitched Jesse closer, leaning to hiss in his ear. 

 

“You should have killed me at the inn, St. James,” he hissed. “For I've everything and nothing to lose all at once, now.”

 

With an almighty shove, he sent the man stumbling hard, face-first into the wall. He felt a vicious, primal gratification when St. James turned around with a snarl and blood streaming from his nose. 

 

“Shall we dance?” invited Kurt, spreading his arms wide before rushing the other man again.

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

_Don't fall,_ Blaine told himself as he scrambled down the stairs.  _Don't fall, don't fall, you can't help her if you fall._

 

With difficulty, he let that voice shout louder than the one that told him that there was no hope. He had to at least try. 

 

_Don't fall._

 

Amelia had never done anything to anyone. She didn't deserve this. 

 

_Don't fall._

 

No screaming. No breathing. Not even any quiet rasping sobs. 

 

_Don't fall._

 

He'd had so many plans. When the fighting was over and England's future secured, Blaine had thought to start easing Amelia into the idea of meeting someone. To marry someone. For love. Someone who could make her as happy as Kurt made him. It was the very least he could do for her after all she had done for him. 

 

_Don't fall._

 

She deserved so many things. So much better. She deserved happiness. Not this. 

 

_Don't -_

 

“Amelia,” he gasped, scrambling to where she lay too pale and still, halfway down the staircase. “Amelia, Amelia, Amelia, please, please move, breathe, please, not you.” Blaine's mind screamed in fear, fear for Amelia lying below him, who should never have had to endure this. For Kurt above, who'd had such rage and hatred in his eyes as he banished Blaine and turned to engage in a deadly struggle.

 

And he, the common link whose mere existence had imperiled them both. Desperate to save both, terrified he would save neither. 

 

She was so very still. 

 

Blaine braced his hands on the walls of the stairwell and carefully leaped over Amelia's body, kneeling before her and reaching out to brush the golden curls away from her face. “Pretty,” he whispered, looking into blue eyes with all the light flown away from them. “Oh, 'Melia. Oh, no, no, no.” 

 

He blinked back tears as he saw how she lay, curled up and crumpled, white nightgown spilling around her. He refused to look at the ugly red splotches around the collar, touched a cheek that had already lost its rosy bloom. He didn't want to believe it, to accept it. 

 

But he knew. Could see it in the chest that did not move up and down with even the shallowest of breaths. In eyes that did not blink. In the voice that was not complaining about her various hurts and demanding that he do something about the person who had caused them. 

 

In the neck that was all, all wrong. 

 

Blaine froze then, wondering why he did not go mad as Thad had done. 

 

No more Amelia. No more sharp banter, no more dancing, no more kicks under the breakfast table, no jokes, no cheerful singing, no incessant handicrafts. No more catching a glimpse of her as she skipped by in pursuit of any one of a thousand things she loved. 

 

It was wrong. 

 

“But I promised to keep you safe.” Blaine's voice cracked as he spoke, choked as it was with tears of anger and grief. “I promised. 'Melia...”

 

Still she did not move. Nor speak. Nor blink. No response, no smile, nothing, nothing, nothing of Amelia anymore. He reached for her hand as he slumped against the wall, pulling it to hold against his chest as if somehow feeling his heartbeat would remind her heart that it, too, was supposed to beat. 

 

“I meant to keep you safe,” he murmured again. “Instead I ended up killing you. Even if I'm not the one who pushed you, I killed you. All of this happened because of who I am.”

 

It felt as though he should be broken, or at least breaking. Instead he reached over with his other hand and wound strands of curls around his fingers, pulling at them in a way that had never failed to elicit a response from her in life, but did nothing now. Unable to help himself, knowing she was far beyond hearing him, Blaine began to whisper to his friend. “Do you remember, pretty, when we were small? When we were learning to ride and you had your fat little pony. Father had given me a proper horse, a young one, and there you were on a pony. I made such fun of you.” 

 

Laughter somehow bubbled up, the thinnest thread through his tears. “But then when we had to mount up and begin to learn, I was the one who howled in terror. I refused to get on my horse. Not you. You hopped right down off of your pony, smacked the back of my head, and got on my horse yourself.” He squeezed that small, cold hand. “You're the most fearless person I ever knew. The very best, 'Melia.” His throat began to close again. “I'm sorry, so sorry that I failed you. You gave me so much, you were my very best friend, and I tried...I tried to keep you happy, pretty. I tried to keep you safe.” 

 

He leaned over and pressed his lips to Amelia's smooth, cool cheek. When she was fourteen and he kissed her, it had lit up her entire face. Now, it did nothing and that nothing shattered his heart. Feeling numb and dark inside, he leaned close to her, still with one hand running through her hair and the other holding tight to her hand, refusing to let go. 

 

Commotion at the bottom of the stairs made him turn his head to see David racing towards him. His Marshal grabbed the railing and skidded to a stop when he saw Blaine kneeling next to Amelia's body. “Blaine. What the hell? One of the chambermaids heard screaming, she had to come out to find me.” He faltered. “Is that...oh, God. Amelia.” 

 

“There's been a breach,” Blaine replied dully, turning back to Amelia's body. “The Earl of Huntingdon sent a man. Thad helped him. And...this...he...” He couldn't say any more.

 

“Amelia,” David breathed, reaching to put a hand on Blaine's shoulder. “Dear God – wait, a breach? Huntingdon? And _Thad_ was involved?” He shook his head and abruptly snapped into military mode, pulling back and standing up straight as he snapped out questions. “Blaine, are there more men? I'll need to gather some of the guards -”

 

“No, just the one, he's not going anywhere, he's upstairs still in the tower with Kurt.” Blaine jerked his head up, jolted back to the present and the fact that their troubles weren't over with Amelia's death. “He's in the tower with _Kurt._ Oh, God. David, please, take care of...of Amelia.” Leaping to his feet, he made his way around the body on the stairs and began pelting back up to the tower. 

 

“Who's Kurt?” he heard David ask, but there was no time to answer, not when Kurt, stubborn, angry, loyal Kurt was alone with a man who had just killed Amelia simply because it might have the effect of undermining Blaine's efforts with the upcoming battle. Kurt was only newly come to fighting, and even the fire for vengeance that Blaine _knew_ he felt might not save him against a ruthless, more experienced opponent. Blaine could not let that happen, could not lose friend and lover both in the same night. _No more victims for you, St. James_ , he thought as he ran as quickly as he dared. _Not this night. Not ever again._

 

_Don't fall._

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

At Kurt's invitation, Jesse grinned and rushed forward, colliding with him and driving him into the wall hard enough to drive all the air from his lungs. “Shame you sent your little lover away, Hummel,” St. James sneered as Kurt gasped and tried to catch his breath. “He might have got excited watching the two of us go at it.” 

 

Gulping down a quick burst of air, Kurt shoved the other man away. “I hate you,” he snapped, furious that the loss of breath rendered his words weak and ineffectual. He swallowed down another breath. “I loathe you, despise you, and will destroy you for all you've done.” 

 

“Precious that you think so,” St. James replied casually, rebuffing Kurt's efforts to strangle him. “Need I remind you that in the last three days, I've killed two people? I think the largest thing you've ever killed was a frog. That you accidentally ran over whilst riding a horse.” Sweeping his foot behind Kurt's knees, he sent the younger man crashing to the floor. “You're not a killer, Hummel.”

 

“And up until earlier this evening I'd have said the same of you, Jesse.” Kurt lay still, trying once again to catch his breath and blink away the golden stars dancing in his vision. He was acutely aware of how defenseless he was, kept babbling to keep St. James distracted. The Steward had resheathed his dagger before slinging Amelia down the steps, and Kurt did not need him to remember it. “Why stoop so low?”

 

Noah and Amelia dead because he couldn't do his job. It was such an effort to keep the anger from choking him. But he wanted to live. And he wanted to know. 

 

Above him, St. James shrugged and smiled. “It's true that I didn't have to,” he mused. “And yet equally true that I did. Puckerman failed me. He's lucky that I  _didn't_ kill his wife. I'd promised him I would. You remember.”

 

Scrabbling back to try and get into a seated position, Kurt nodded and kept talking. “But Amelia did nothing to disappoint you.” He blinked back the stinging in his eyes. “You'd have been better off holding her hostage than killing her.” 

 

“Oh, no, I wouldn't.” Jesse reached down and knotted his hand into Kurt's hair, dragging him upright before hurling him again into the wall. Kurt was reminded irresistibly of a memory from childhood, of a cat playing with a mouse before biting it in half. “My job – which I'm here doing, see how easy it is to follow orders when you're not hampered with feelings, Hummel? - was to incapacitate the Viscount. To remove him from his very important leadership position and nip this silly rebellion in the bud.”

 

“You'd have done that by killing him, as he offered,” Kurt pointed out as he pushed off the wall and reached to grab Jesse's lapels, thinking to fling him to the ground. He bit back a curse as he was fended off again and sent reeling. His stomach twisted into a knot at the thought of Blaine dead – he didn't want that any more than he'd wanted Amelia dead. But at least Blaine's death might have made sense. Amelia's death had been cruel, horrific, and wholly unnecessary, even considering that St. James seemingly possessed no soul whatsoever.

 

“But this way, with you and little Amelia dead while he still lives, stripped of his responsibilities and perhaps even land and title? There's destruction and then there's _destruction_ , Hummel. I'll end not only having done my duty, but actually having enjoyed it, because oh, the thought of his pain is just _delicious._ ” St. James tsked as he sidestepped Kurt's next attempt to engage him. “The best bit was when his retainer and friend and, oh, this was marvelous, _ex-lover_ joined me.” He jerked his head to indicate Thad, who was kneeling in the cell and muttering as he rocked back and forth. “It couldn't have been more perfectly set up for my advancement and Anderson's complete and total downfall.”

 

Kurt was stunned by the information that revealed his longtime enemy to be even more diabolical and insane than he'd thought. And he'd thought he could ever outwit him? It didn't speak well to Kurt's own state of mind – which wasn't helped when, in the cell, Thad's muttering grew louder, and Kurt could now make out the words. 

 

_ Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet _ _... _

 

He was reciting the Act of Contrition. Praying for forgiveness for his sins. It was an eerie backdrop to the tense struggle between the two men outside of the cell. Kurt hurled himself at Jesse again, managing to shove him back towards the wall, but his boots slipped on a patch of water that must have dribbled from Amelia's pitcher. He went down, twisting his ankle painfully. 

 

_Me omnium meorum peccatorum, eaque detestor..._

 

Kurt began to fear that it would all come to pass, for no matter what he did he couldn't seem to get the hold he needed to immobilize St. James. He was tired, aching, weakened by his grief and anger. All of his lessons in close-quarter fighting were of no use against Jesse, who'd had the privilege of exposure to this sort of training his entire life.  _I made a mistake sending Blaine away,_ he thought wretchedly.  _We could have done this together._

 

But he knew better. 

 

_It had to be a fair fight...and I didn't want him to lose to St. James._

 

_And I didn't want him to see me lose._

 

“The irony in all of this is that of everyone, the one person who was never, ever in any danger whatsoever was your father,” St. James gloated with a laugh as he backhanded Kurt. “Imagine! If you'd had even the slightest sense to realize that Huntingdon would _never_ let me endanger his precious Stablemaster, none of this would have happened!” He paused for a moment to bask in his own glory, spreading his hands out and laughing. “Feelings, Hummel! They'll tear you down every time.”

 

_Quia peccando, non solum poenas a te iuste statutus promeritus sum..._

 

In that moment, Jesse's laughter ringing mocking through the room as Thad pleaded for forgiveness from his God, Kurt was flooded with the fury he needed to unlock his limbs. It sent him pelting across the tiny room at the Steward, catching him just as he realized what was happening, that he'd allowed himself to go too complacent and be too confident that Kurt couldn't win. 

 

The nights spent in the salle with Blaine filled his mind, every trick and twist his lover had taught him steering his movements. He got his arms around Jesse's waist and yanked him down to the ground, choking the laughter off in his throat as Kurt managed to finally get his hand around it. 

 

_Sed praesertim quia offendi te, summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris..._

 

“Feelings, St. James,” he snarled back. “They'll help me tear you down, every time.” Swinging his legs, he straddled Jesse's chest and pulled his hand away so that he could reach for the other man's arms and pin them down. 

 

“You can't kill me with your hands full, Hummel.” Jesse rolled his eyes. “I'm just getting my wind back here. While you struggle to hold me down, I'm recovering. I'll have you in a moment.”

 

“I don't think so,” Kurt replied with a calmness he had to fight to project. He was gratified to see the first hint of fear entering Jesse's eyes as he shifted up so that his knees could replace his hands. “Shouldn't have threatened my father and sent me to find love, St. James. Love will trump ambition, every time.”

 

_Ideo firmiter propono,adiuvante gratia tua..._

 

“You're not a killer, Hummel,” Jesse reminded him with the first stirrings of panic in his voice. He jerked his arms in an attempt to free them, to no avail. Kurt reached behind himself and pulled the dagger from its sheath on Jesse's belt.

 

“No, I'm not,” Kurt informed him, marveling at how calm he sounded as he wielded the dagger. “I'm not thinking of this as killing you, though. More like avenging Noah, and Amelia, and ridding the world of the foul stench of your presence once and for all.”

 

_De cetero me non peccatorum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum..._

 

It felt very like and yet unlike all of his practice sessions with Blaine. Kurt moved by instinct now, the maneuvers he'd been taught coming with a fearsome ease – but with one important exception. 

 

This time when he brought the knife down, he didn't merely lay it across the throat of the man he was pinning down. 

 

This time he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slashed to kill. 

 

_Amen._

 

 

~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~oOo~~ 

 

As Blaine ran, he thought his heart had moved to clog his throat. 

 

His lungs burned, breath gasping out in spurts as he hauled himself up the staircase. When he slipped and went down hard on one knee, he was hard pressed to keep from simply staying down and screaming, it hurt so much. But he pushed on, now slowed considerably and frantic with pain and worry. 

 

_Can't lose you, not after everything, not after Amelia._

 

With a last burst of excruciatingly painful speed, he was in the room at the top of the tower. The sight that greeted Blaine after his limping stumble there chilled him to the bone. 

 

Kurt. Kurt, alive, straddling St. James' unmoving chest and pinning the other man's arms down with his knees just as Blaine had shown him to do. Blood splashed up across his bare chest – Blaine remembered absently that he'd only half dressed himself after their tryst – as the wicked looking dagger he'd removed from the Steward's belt glinted sharp and red-bladed in his hand. 

 

Amelia was gone, but Kurt had ensured that Jesse St. James had paid the ultimate price for his grave transgression. 

 

Blaine lurched forward, willing his knee to stop aching for just this little while. His brain was kicking into gear, lining out plans and strategies for how they'd deal with the aftermath of this horrific evening. But first...“Kurt?” 

 

His lover looked up, blue-green eyes wide and glazed over in shock. “Blaine...” 

 

“Are you all right?” He moved forward a step or two more, hand reaching out. “Kurt. Kurt?”

 

“Blaine. I'm, I'm going to -” Kurt turned away abruptly and was sick on the stone flooring. “Oh, my God.”

 

“Shh. It's all right, Kurt, it's all right.” He made it to drop gingerly down at Kurt's side, carefully unwinding his fingers one at a time from the dagger's hilt until it dropped to the floor with a clatter. Still careful, slow and cautious, he wrapped his arms around the other man and gently pulled him up and off of the body upon which he sat. “It's all right. It's over. Are you hurt?”

 

“Not really...bruised, battered. Alive.” His mouth twisted. “Not like Amelia. Oh, no...”

 

“Shh,” Blaine said again, feeling tears beginning to prickle again behind his eyes. “Please, Kurt, don't.”

 

“But it's my fault. She's gone and it's my fault, Blaine. All of it, everything, it's me. I'm a plague to all I love...how can you not hate me?” Kurt turned his face away, refusing to look at Blaine. “I killed her. I killed Amelia.”

 

“Stop it,” Blaine croaked, twisting Kurt to face him and trying to catch his eye. “ _He_ killed Amelia.” He pointed to the corpse on the floor behind them, St. James' face frozen in its perpetual arrogant smirk. “ _He_ threatened your father's life, _he_ blackmailed you into coming here to ruin, _he_ flung my friend down the stairs and _that_ man -” he pointed now to Thad, still praying in the cell and felt his voice sharpening in the anger he had to work to contain, “- one of my oldest friends, comrades, and close advisors, chose to help him to do it. I blame many people for this, Kurt, but you are not anywhere near the top of the list.”

 

“But I -”

 

“The only thing I do blame you for,” Blaine went on, trying to tilt Kurt's chin up so that he could look into his eyes, “is not trusting me enough to help you...but I don't think I can even really blame you for that.” He took a deep breath, his mind still racing with planning. “You must have been frightened near to death. All this time, carrying all of that around and still trying to save everyone...how could I hate anyone for that?”

 

“You should.” Kurt wrapped his own arms around himself, huddling in close and pulling away from Blaine.

 

“I don't.” He shook his head, cupping his hands around Kurt's face and leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek before resting their foreheads together and taking another breath. “I don't hate you. I love you. And it's important that you know that with what I'm about to do.” 

 

Kurt jerked backwards, staring. “Blaine. What are you about to do?” 

 

Closing his eyes, Blaine reached for Kurt's hands. He did not want to do this, but it was the first step in the plan that his mind was putting together.  _It is necessary_ , he told himself to stave off the rising misery. “I'm sending you to France.”

 

“No.” Kurt pulled away again and stepped back, eyes wide with panic. “No, don't. Please. Don't send me away.”

 

“I have to, Kurt. I don't want to, I have to.” He reached forward again, limping forward with every backwards step Kurt took. Ignoring the agony in his mistreated knee, Blaine lurched hard to grab Kurt's shoulders. “I need to know you're safe, after this. I need to get you away from here to _keep_ you safe. Just until everything is said and done.”

 

“No, no,” Kurt kept shaking his head. “That's what Lord Crawford told Amelia, Blaine, don't send me away, can't you see it doesn't work?”

 

“Lord Crawford's mistake wasn't in sending Amelia away,” Blaine rasped out, feeling his grief coming to choke him. “It was in allowing me to take her in. She's dead because of who I am, Kurt. You're here because of who I am.” He let go of Kurt to tangle his hands into his own hair and pull at it in agitation. “Of all the people I blame for all of this, Kurt, I blame _myself_ more than anyone, it all happened because of _who I am_. I did not ask for my title and duties, but the responsibility is mine and I should have been more mindful of it.” 

 

Now Kurt was actively reaching to hold him, now it was Blaine backing away. “Blaine, it's not – you didn't...it's not your fault. It's not.” 

 

Blaine held his hands out as if trying to ward Kurt off. “But it is. My self-delusion and inattention got my very dearest friend killed tonight. I knelt at the bottom of those stairs next to her lifeless body, I held her hand, I looked into eyes that didn't see me.” He lifted his chin and swallowed hard, trying so hard to impart his desperation to Kurt. “Don't make me do that a second time, with you. I want to be sure you don't die because of me.” 

 

“I don't think Huntingdon will come after me,” Kurt whispered. “Jesse always said the Earl was never fully aware of what he did, that he didn't want to know.”

 

“I believe that. I think he'll disassociate himself from St. James' actions.” He ducked his head down, fixing his gaze on the spatters of darkening blood on Kurt's fair skin. “But I won't take the chance that someone else will find out that you're even remotely important to me. I lost Amelia. I won't lose you.”

 

“I don't want to go. I don't want to be away from you. Not now. Not ever.” Kurt's eyes pleaded with him, shot straight to his heart with the sharpness of the pain he saw there. “Please, Blaine. I love you. Don't.”

 

“It's temporary.” Blaine had to look away from Kurt's agony. It hurt too much to see. “Just until the war is done and Henry safely has the throne. Which I  _ will _ ensure happens.” He had to force the words out between teeth clenched suddenly so tight that his whole head began to ache. “Now more than I ever I have a vested interest in putting my cousin in charge of England.”

 

Kurt's mouth dropped open in horror. “You still intend to fight!” 

 

Blaine frowned. “Yes, of course I do. Especially now. I have responsibilities and a very, very good reason to want Richard deposed.” 

 

“You want to send me away for my own safety, yet you still wish to ride into war.” Kurt was agitated, began to pace the tiny room. “How is that fair? Do you think I want to mourn you any more than you want to mourn me? Why should  _ I  _ have to lose both Amelia and you?”

 

“This is my duty, Kurt. I have no choice.” Now Blaine reached up again to cradle Kurt's face so gently in his hands, as if he were holding his lover's heart. “I was born to do what is best for my country. You are part of my country, part of my life. Please. Let me do this one thing to keep you safe and I will come for you, Kurt. Did you think I meant to send you away forever?”

 

“Blaine, please.” One last plea, with the full force of his anguish behind it. Blaine sucked down a breath and shook his head, though it hurt his heart to deny this man anything, especially now. He didn't want to do this either, did not want to have to make important decisions for England without Kurt at his side to remind him that his life was not war all of the time. 

 

But it would be worse if he let him stay and he, too, ended up dead. Blaine couldn't let that happen. A few months of loneliness and being heartsore weighed against a life of hollow agony – it was the choice that wasn't a choice at all. Kurt had to go, for now. 

 

“Kurt, please, you must go.” He was pleading, begging, and Blaine was not a man who did so easily. Yet he needed Kurt to do this. “You and Wesley will go to one of the Beaufort family holdings in France – he knows which one. And you'll be safe, and I will come to you, Kurt.” Once more, Blaine pressed his forehead to Kurt's and felt the other man's strong arms come around to hold him so tightly that his breath was stolen away. “When all is over, Kurt, I will come for you. I promise, I will come for you and bring you home with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank both MotherGoddamn and this week, beta-in-training Illyria, both of whom read and reread the chapter for me and assured me that it is okay. I had a bit of a surprisingly bad reaction to some of the more painfully critical comments I received and I got very nervous about this chapter. But I needed to post it; couldn't keep you hanging forever. So I apologize for the delay and thank you for your patience. One chapter to go, thank you for sticking with me this long.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the greatest of these is love.

"Kurt." Wes nudged at Kurt's arm, sticking the bowl of beef stew in front of his face. "You must eat." 

Kurt ignored him. "I'm not hungry, Wesley."

"I allowed you to get away with that this morning. You can skip one meal a day. That's our agreement." Wes nudged at him again. "I am not Emma. I _will_ wrestle you down and force you to eat."

"I'd like to see you try." He bent his head back over his book. "I'll eat later, Wes. Really."

The Steward wasn't having it. " _Now_ , Kurt. Blaine could arrive any day. I won't have him accusing me of not taking care of you."

Kurt looked up and glared. "I don't need to be taken care of!"

"If that were in any way true, we wouldn't have this argument every day," Wes retorted, unperturbed. " _Eat_."

"Fine." Kurt snatched the bowl away and began shoveling bites of stew into his mouth, glaring the entire time. Wes merely stood impassively, moving only once the bowl was empty. He picked it up and replaced it with a cup of cider.

"Drink."

With ill-grace, Kurt complied, but the sweet liquid reminded him too sharply of late night picnics with Amelia. Swallowing down the hard lump that suddenly rose in his throat, he handed the cup back to Wes. "All right, Wes. That's enough."

Wes looked at the half empty cup and sighed. "It will do for now." He turned to go.

"Wes. You..." Kurt shook his head. "Truly, you needn't wait on me. We're equals. Actually, you're my superior. This feels all wrong."

Wes tilted his head, raising one eyebrow. "Blaine is one of my closest friends. He has been for as long as I can remember. And he has asked me to look after you, Kurt. You won't leave this room, so I'm doing what I have to do to fulfill my promise to him that I would." He smiled warmly. "It's all right, I pledge you. Though I honestly will start wrestling you down if you don't stop balking at eating."

This drew a return smile from Kurt. "I'll try."

"Kurt." Wes paused in the doorway.

"Yes?"

"He's going to come for you. He truly is." Wes was sincere, and Kurt could see that the Steward really wanted him to believe this. "Blaine does not make promises he doesn't intend to keep, and we know he's alive. He will come, as soon as he can." With another smile, he took the used dishes and departed, leaving Kurt with his thoughts.

They'd been in France since late June. It was now mid-October, and each day it felt that the space in Kurt's heart where Blaine belonged was growing larger and more painful. The letters they exchanged had been infrequent out of necessity - and it wasn't enough. It didn't make up for their separation at all.

The first part of the journey hadn't been entirely terrible. Kurt had been distracted by having to keep Rachel occupied - Blaine had decided to kill two birds with one stone and had arranged for Wes and Kurt to escort the grieving widow to her family in Portugal.

It had been a slow trip due to Rachel's advancing pregnancy. On the boat to the mainland she'd mostly cried and tried to keep from being sick. Kurt plied her with soothing songs and cold cloths on her forehead, holding her when she cried over the losses of Noah and Amelia. She clutched at the baby blanket Amelia had made as if it were a lifeline, refusing to let anyone else touch it.

When they arrived on land, they'd taken carriages on their slow progress to Esposende, the tiny coastal town in Portugal from which Noah and Rachel hailed. It took several days, but at last they were able to finally deposit Rachel into the loving bosom of her large, boisterous, grieving family.

They had only been able to bring themselves to stay for a day or two. The grief of Noah and Rachel's families had been like salt on Kurt's emotional wounds, burning and sharpening his own grief until he could cope no longer. With last sad hugs and farewells, he and Wes had mounted horses for the final leg of their trip up into France, where Blaine's maternal family had a chateau just outside of the kingdom of Brittany.

It had been a very long, arduous, and yet somehow still lovely journey as they'd traveled the Portuguese and Spanish coastlines to get to the chateau. The inns had been charming and Wes was good company. Useful, as well, as he spoke enough of the native languages to get them fed, lodged, and even occasionally entertained by local singers and dancers. Had the purpose of their travels not weighed so heavily on Kurt's shoulders, he would have enjoyed himself immensely.

He too often wished that it could have been Blaine with him as he explored a world he'd never known existed until now. Wished that it was Blaine who coaxed him into trying unfamiliar cuisine and drink. Most of all, Kurt desperately wished that Blaine could be there to hold him when he awoke in a sweating panic from the visions of St. James lying dead by his, Kurt's, hand.

Kurt was not at all who he'd been a mere year ago, and up until now, Blaine had been there to help him cope with that, even if he hadn't known that's what he was doing. Now Kurt dealt with the loss of Amelia and having killed a man all on his own...it was painful, difficult and more than anything overwhelmingly sad. Dark, cloudy thoughts dogged him each day and well into the night, making it difficult for him to want to even get out of bed in the mornings, let alone mount a horse.

 

Most days, the events of the past months were finally far too much to bear, forcing him to dip into reserves of will he hadn't known he had simply to get through each day's ride. When they finally arrived at the chateau, Kurt had hauled his two small packs of belongings with him into one of the guest suites and had since then refused to emerge. Meals, bathing, reading – all of it took place in his suite while he paced and slept and waited for Blaine. It did not take him long to develop little rituals, moments and small milestones to get him through the day. 

Leaning down, Kurt opened his desk drawer and removed the pitifully small pile of letters that he'd received from Blaine, carrying them with him to the window seat. He'd lit the candles in the wall brackets earlier, so now he had only change into his sleeping breeches and then to curl up in the cushions for the last of his daily touchstones. Slowly, he pulled the very first letter from the top of the stack and unfolded it.

 

_Kurt,_

 

_I feel as though I could fill this page with nothing but the words 'I miss you,' and it would still fall far short of expressing just how much I wish I had you here with me now._

 

_Everyone is here at Dalton to finalize the planning for battle, but amidst the clamor of voices, the two I long most to hear are conspicuous in their absence. David has to catch my attention more often than usual, and more frequently bests me in the salle than not. He does not hesitate to hold this against me, either._

 

_I hope that your journey was not too difficult, and that this letter finds you in good spirits. I wish only that it was not so short, but Kurt, what else can I say? I miss you. I love you. Please, stay safe and well until I can come for you._

 

_Blaine_

 

  
Kurt paged on. 

 

_Kurt,_

 

_I'm sorry this took much longer than I expected to write. Finding moments in the day is so difficult. It seems everyone wants some part of me for something – for war, for household requisitioning, for discussion of what happened to Amelia._

 

_You are the only person who has ever wanted me simply for myself, and knowing that makes your absence ache all the more painfully._

 

_I've had visitors – not unexpected, of course, given what has happened – and you should know that I was correct in my supposing that William Herbert would distance himself from the actions of his Steward. He truly was unaware of the specifics of St. James' plan; indeed, he seemed to even be ignorant of the exact intelligence that led the man to send you to me. I must say I do not think so very highly of a nobleman who deliberately turns his head so that he cannot see what the viper he harbors is doing. It seems quite lacking in nobility at all._

 

_Nonetheless, as St. James was proven easily to be his man and there was no denying that he had gained unauthorized entry into my home, Huntingdon did pay reparation to Lord Crawford for the death of Amelia, though it is cold comfort to him and indeed to myself as well. Relations between the Earl and I are strained, which I understand in light of my failure but still find painful._

 

_Yet I must go on. I must work with him to help coordinate this battle, about which I feel so much conflict. On the one hand I feel a ferocious aversion to support this endeavor, which led to the death of my friend. On the other, if I don't do my very best, I will forever feel that Amelia's death was in vain._

 

_I wish you were here to take my mind off of this._

 

_Love, Blaine_

 

William Herbert's financial renumeration to Lord Crawford was cold comfort to Kurt as well. The Earl of Huntingdon had forwarded funds to him along with a stiffly worded note that was just short of an abject apology. In it he had stated that Burt Hummel would find safe haven and employment at Raglan Castle for as long as he cared to have it, that it was the least Huntingdon could do after all St. James had put Kurt through. 

 

The money sat in a pouch in his desk. He never left his room, let alone the chateau, so he had nowhere to spend it. And he wasn't sure he could bring himself to do so, at any rate. It felt too much like blood money. 

 

He moved on to the next letter. 

 

_Kurt,_

 

_It is the night before we are to engage in battle. I know that this will change the future of England no matter what the outcome, know that I am doing what is right even if we are to fail. And there is a possibility of that, Kurt. Lord Stanley still resists choosing a side. I don't quite know how we will prevail if he does nothing or if he chooses to support King Richard. I haven't said anything to the others, though I know Nick and Jeff have figured out that it doesn't look quite as good as we'd hoped when planning all of this._

 

_I shall fight with all of my might, Kurt, and in doing so it is possible that I may lose my life in defense of my country. Know that if this happens, you will be taken care of, Aunt Alice will be glad to keep you on when she takes over ownership of Dalton House. Wes will bring you home in that event._

 

_But I will fight to live, Kurt, for I still wish to come to you. I love you and it is with all the hope in my body that I pray I shall live to see you again and bring you home._

 

_Blaine_

 

Kurt blinked back tears and got up to splash his face in the corner basin. This letter was always hardest to read, knowing that as Blaine wrote it he truly feared he might die. But his nightly ritual included reading all of the letters, no matter how painful the task. They were his last link to Blaine until they saw each other again. 

 

Returning to the window seat, he picked the last sheet of parchment up. 

 

_Kurt,_

 

_We've won. We have prevailed. Richard met his end on the field of battle and my cousin Henry is now King of England._

 

_I longed to dash off of Bosworth Field and come immediately to you, Kurt, but I cannot. There is too much they would have me do yet. Know that I will endeavor to complete my tasks as swiftly as possible so that I may come to you. My transport is ready whenever I am, so it will be no major task to set things in motion when the time comes._

 

_I am counting the days. I wish I could give you some idea as to when to expect me. As soon as I can, is all I can say._

 

_I will come for you._

 

_Blaine_

 

Kurt had received that last letter in early September. It seemed that the time had still not come, nor had any further letters arrived. He fretted, but Wes soothed him by pointing out that had anything happened, Alice at least would have informed them. She had not, and so they had to assume that all was well and Blaine was merely being kept busy by the Beauforts and Tudors. 

 

Each night, Kurt sat in the window and read the letters over and over until he finally felt exhausted and dragged down enough by his sadness to attempt sleep. Then he would blow the candles out, climb into bed and slumber as long as he could until the nightmares came to torment him. This night, he was sure, would be no exception. 

 

He fell into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, so tired that he didn't hear the clattering of horse hooves on the cobbled road leading up to the chateau. He did not hear the lone guard sharply questioning the late arrival. And he did not hear the eager footsteps on the stairs leading to his room. 

 

But he woke up immediately, gasping and clutching at his abruptly racing heart when he felt himself gathered into a pair of strong arms. 

 

“There you are,” whispered a low, heartbreakingly familiar voice that was edged with the roughness of exhaustion. “I've been looking for you forever.”

 

“Blaine?” Kurt pushed himself to sitting and blinked in the light of the lamp that had not been on his bedside table when he went to sleep. Could it be...? Was it too much to hope? “Blaine, is it truly you?” 

 

“It's me, Kurt.” Hazel eyes ringed with dark circles shone warmly in the lamplight, a scarred hand reached out to cup his face. “I've come at last. I'm sorry I woke you.”

 

_What a ridiculous notion_ , Kurt thought dazedly. “Blaine,” was all he could get out as he flung himself forward into the other man's arms, holding on for dear life. “Blaine, Blaine, Blaine.” 

 

“Kurt, Kurt, Kurt,” Blaine teased, running his fingers through Kurt's hair before claiming his mouth in a long kiss. “Oh, how I've longed to do that. How I've missed you.”

 

Kurt pulled back, reaching to touch Blaine's hair, face, arms, hands, chest, hardly daring to believe even now that what he was seeing was real. “I thought you'd send a letter,” he breathed, drinking in the sight before him. “I've been waiting and waiting for another letter.” 

 

“I'm sorry, I know you must have...I wanted to surprise you.” Blaine captured his hands and brought them to his chest, eyes bright with joy and earnest delight. “I rode my horse near to foundering to get here. I began riding as soon as I touched ground in Brittany and didn't stop – it was almost a surprise to arrive.”

 

“You must be exhausted, you're going to fall over, Blaine.” Kurt began tugging at Blaine's doublet. “Do you want to sleep? We can talk in the morning.” But his heart and mind rebelled at the notion. They'd only just reunited, he wasn't ready to close his eyes and block out the sight of his lover quite yet.

 

“Absolutely not yet,” Blaine replied firmly. “I'm not done looking at you or holding you or hearing your voice, Kurt. I don't even want to let you go to change into sleeping clothes.”

 

“Oh...well, all right. I can live with that.” He more than could live with that. His blood raced with excitement, drove him to keep touching Blaine to be sure he was real. “Oh, God, Blaine, you're here at last. But what took so long? Why did you not write? Did Henry keep you?”

 

“He certainly did.” Blaine's tone of voice was rueful. “Which I suppose is what I get for organizing my troops as well as I did. My cousin was quite polite in his request for me to come with him and help set up his Court, but it was quite clear that it was less a request and more a requirement.”

 

“Court!” He knew he sounded like a goose-girl with all his incredulity, but even so, Kurt couldn't help it. Blaine at Court? His eyes were wide with the thought of it.

 

“Court,” Blaine agreed, nodding. “His Majesty has conferred upon me the Earldom of Kellsworth. There were occasions. Dancing, organizing a council, preparing for Henry's coronation...I hardly had a moment to breathe, let alone write to you. I finally had to beg him to let me go. I think if I hadn't been family, I'd not have prevailed.”

 

“I feel I should be jealous, you've had such fun while I was wasting away here in exile.” Kurt was teasing, but there was a knife edge of bitterness there that he couldn't keep back. Blaine caught it and laid his hand along Kurt's cheek.

 

“Every moment, I wanted nothing more than to be here with you,” he murmured, gazing into Kurt's eyes. “After the horrors of the battlefield, the nightmares I've been having of that terrible night at Dalton – being away from you was the only time I have ever truly resented my duty and responsibility.”

 

“Nightmares?” Kurt's voice was hushed, as the question escaped him before he thought. “You have them as well?”

 

Blaine was still for a long time, his eyes moving to stare off into the distance. “I see her,” he finally whispered, pain etching lines in his face. “Every night, I see her falling, over and over...” With a shudder, he pulled Kurt close. “And if it's not that, then I dream that it was you that he pushed, or I dream that it was you beneath St. James' knife. Too, since the battle, I've been dreaming of the things I saw there...” He began to rock back and forth, almost imperceptibly, his attention far, far away. 

 

“You're here now,” Kurt soothed, feeling horrid for even having asked. He ran his hands along Blaine's arms and back, trying to smooth the shaking away, grateful to know that when he would be similarly affected later, Blaine would be there for him as well. It felt like a miracle after all the months of fear and longing.

 

When he pulled back to look into Blaine's eyes, he saw again how tired his beloved was, took in the thin white scar along his hairline, the larger pink one running diagonally across his collarbone. It made him suck in a deep breath and run his fingers along it. “You were hurt.” 

 

This brought Blaine back to the present. “It's not so bad,” he replied softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “My horse threw me once, that wrenched my back. Besides this that you see, there's another wound from where one of Richard's swordsmen got me in their last charge – don't look at me like that, it was shallow, mending nicely now. All in all I dispatched myself well. David was quite proud.” A brief smile crossed Blaine's face. “And none of my friends died, though we all lost men...it was something of a miracle. I feel horribly for the families of the men that died, yet I am happy that my friends lived...I was afraid that the loss of Thad and Amelia was just a heralding of more losses to come...” 

 

Kurt frowned at the mention of the unwelcome name even as it caused his curiosity to swell. As much as he despised Blaine's ex-lover, as little as he understood his motivations, he still needed to know. “Have you heard from Thad at all?” He knew the question was all but coated in distaste and reluctance. Blaine smiled sadly, understanding. 

 

“I did stop at the monastery before I got on the boat to sail to Brittany,” he admitted, taking Kurt's hand in his. “He's oddly at peace. Truly penitent for allowing his jealousy and pride to lead him into the temptation of wrongdoing. He knows that as an anchorite, he will never leave his cell and...he accepts that. He is almost happy to have to spend his life repenting of his sins.”

 

“He shouldn't be happy about it in the slightest,” Kurt muttered in anger. He pulled his hands away as if his angry, resentful touch could burn or taint Blaine. “He should have no peace, no rest, no repentance...and I should be there with him. It's all as much my fault as it ended up being his -”

 

“No,” Blaine told him firmly, reclaiming his hands. “And I will repeat it until you believe me. You were made to believe you had no choice in what you did. You were blackmailed by means most foul, your emotions and care for your father taken complete advantage of by a madman. Thad chose to set his foot on the path to wrongdoing. He chose to ally himself with someone who obviously meant ill, and he meant to cause you harm.” A warm hand came under Kurt's chin to lift it and force him to meet Blaine's eyes. “You both were pawns in St. James' game, but Thad was a willing one. You never were.”

 

Kurt closed his eyes. “It's just that I miss her, so much, every day. And the guilt I feel over it...Blaine, if I had just thought for a moment, just used common sense, I'd never have ended up at Dalton, she wouldn't have died -” 

 

“And we'd never have met,” Blaine interrupted quietly.

 

Kurt blinked his eyes open, startled. “What?” 

 

“If you'd stopped to think instead of feel, we would never have met. And worse might have happened, though I can't begin to imagine what...” Blaine trailed off. “I have to seek out all of the silver linings that I can in this situation, Kurt. It's what Amelia would do. And it's kept me from going insane these last months.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Kurt's as he spoke, voice rasped and charged with his urgency to convey the sincerity he felt. “The...Kurt, the brightest shining thing is that we got each other out of all of this. I will hold on to that as long as you will allow me to do so.”

 

“Forever...” Kurt breathed, looking down at their joined hands as he lost himself in thought. He hoped one day he believed the words that Blaine spoke. It seemed impossible, especially since they'd have to return to England soon, ripping off any scabs that had managed to form over his emotional wounds. The very idea made him wince. “I don't want to go home,” he murmured, feeling his breath begin to come unevenly. “I don't. I can't...not yet.” He looked back up. “Blaine, I just...I can't.”

 

Blaine seemed puzzled by the subject change, taking a moment to catch up and gather his thoughts to respond. “We don't have to,” he replied eventually, shrugging his shoulders. “To be honest, I don't want to go back yet, either. I've spent three months at home with everyone but the two most important people in my life. The whole time, I was preparing to send men into battle to die, and then I was actually on the battlefield...and then I was at Court for far too long.” He shook his head. “No, Kurt, I'm not ready to return to England.” 

 

Kurt hardly dared to hope that he was hearing correctly. “Truly? But, Blaine, what about Dalton?” 

 

“Aunt Alice, Emma, and David are perfectly capable of keeping things safe and well until my return,” Blaine informed him with a smile. “And we have Wes here along with the regular staff to keep _this_ place running smoothly around us.” He squeezed Kurt's hands. “We can stay here as long as we like, Kurt – which I shall admit I hope is quite a good stretch of time and I had been intending to suggest it at any rate. Quite apart from anything else, the freedom we could enjoy here would be much curtailed in England. I know that you're well aware of that.”

 

“We won't have _any_ freedom in England,” Kurt realized, his heart sinking again as it occurred to him what Blaine's new title would mean. Increased scrutiny, people waiting for him to make a misstep – or in some cases, for him to make _more_ missteps, as surely not everyone believed that Blaine was free of fault in Amelia's death. “Oh, God. I'll have to leave, Blaine. I no longer have a pupil. There's no legitimate reason for me to stay at Dalton.” The words were ashes in Kurt's mouth as he forced them out. As soon as they knocked down one problem, another rose to take its place. Could he have come this far, survived this much, only to lose anyway?

 

Blaine had been staring at him in confusion throughout his speech, a confusion that was cleared away in the wake of a smile that began to spread across his face. “Kurt, please, stop borrowing trouble.” 

 

Kurt felt a frown crease his brow. “It's not borrowing trouble, it's recognizing it,” he protested. “You need no music tutelage. People will begin to talk, you can't afford that.” 

 

“I am an Earl now, Kurt.” Blaine waited for Kurt to understand what that meant. When it it became clear that understanding was not forthcoming, he shook his head and smiled, continuing on. “As such, I shall be expected to hold entertainments,” he explained. “Entertainments that will require music. Someone will have to be in charge of that, may even have to perform.” The smile on Blaine's face now was capable of illuminating the continent. He cocked one eyebrow up and tilted his head towards Kurt. “I don't suppose you've any interest in that sort of position.”

 

“That would be _one_ position in which I am interested,” Kurt replied archly, his spirits lifting enough to allow his acerbic wit to begin to reemerge. He felt hopeful and normal for the first time in much too long. “Among others, each more acrobatic than the last. I'd legitimately be in your employ, Lord Kellsworth. Sleeping with the hired help, it would be a scandal.”

 

“Only if you're the gossipy sort, and I intend to keep you much too busy to have time for that.” Blaine leaned forward to begin nibbling at Kurt's neck, causing more than his spirits to rise. “Now that you've mentioned acrobatics...lover, are we done with these inconsequential matters? I've more important things to explore. Such as the fact that I quite missed your neck.”

 

“Oh, I didn't mean to – wait, Blaine, I don't know enough about music...” Kurt knew there was an important point to be made here, but he found himself rather distracted by the scrape of Blaine's teeth on his skin. “It can't – I can't -” He couldn't _think_ , was the problem. How could Blaine possibly have the energy for this?

 

“We'll figure it out as we go along.” Blaine's breath puffed warm against Kurt's throat as he trailed kisses back around and moved up to fuse their mouths together. “Please, Kurt. I'm tired and I love you and I don't wish to talk anymore. Let us take things as they come, no need to solve everything in a single night, not when you're _right here_ and not wearing much.” His fingers groped at the laces of Kurt's sleeping breeches, deftly unknotting them.

 

“But...” Kurt struggled to maintain control, a feat made more difficult by Blaine's hand slipping into his breeches and cupping his groin in its rough warmth.

 

“If I promise to take you to Wales to visit your father when we do begin our journey home,” Blaine murmured, tracing his tongue around Kurt's lips, “will you stop worrying so much and concentrate on the fact that we are together, in France, with no agenda or obligation to anyone but each other?”

 

Kurt pulled away, startled, ignoring Blaine's frustrated whine. It took a few moments of him opening and closing his mouth before he could finally get the words out. “My father...Blaine, do you truly mean it?” 

 

“With all of my heart.” Blaine's eyes were bottomless pools of amber light, wide, earnest, full of love and amusement as he reached out to pull Kurt against him once more. “Only for a visit, mind you. You have to promise in return that you'll return to Dalton with me afterwards. I feel quite strongly that...” He nipped at Kurt's lip, sucking it into his own mouth for a heartbeat before letting go. “...mmm. I never want you out of my sight again.”

 

For the first time in a very long time, Kurt felt as if he were free to breathe and, at last, relax. He leaned forward to run his fingers down his lover's stubbled jawline before pulling him into a long kiss that he wished dearly never had to end. “I promise,” Kurt breathed, pressing Blaine back down into the bed, a smile curling his lips as he began to divest him of his clothing. “I shall never, ever say farewell to you, Blaine.” 

 

 

_Fin_

 

 

_  
_   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know where to begin, now that this has come to an end. I must thank MotherGoddamn for her tireless beta work and help, and Illyriaz-Shell for stepping in and pinch-hitting these last two chapters. I want to thank everyone who has read this and everyone who has told me they can't wait to read it, everyone who has commented or reblogged or recced this fic...I could never have persevered with this epic had I not had all the support a girl could dream of having behind her. Thank you, thank you, a thousand times thank you for indulging me in this caprice. My love to you all forever.


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